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C:\Downloads\Books\Working File\Pauline Rowson - DI Andy Horton 01 - In Cold
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Page No 1
Top
Page No 2
IN COLD DAYLICHT
First published in 2006 by Fathom
65 Rogers Mead
Hayling Island
Hampshire
England
PO11 0PL
ISBN: 0955098211
Copyright © Pauline Rowson 2006
The right of Pauline Rowson to be identified as the author of this
work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced
in any material form (including photocopying or storing it in any
medium by electronic means and whether or not transiently or
incidentally to some other use of publication) without the written
permission of the copyright owner except in accordance with the
provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 or under
the terms of a licence issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency
Ltd. 90 Tottenham Court Road, London, England W1P 9HE.
Applications for the copyright owner’s written permission to
reproduce any part of this publication should be addressed to the
publisher.
Warning: The doing of an unauthorised act in relation to a copyright
work may result in both a civil claim for damages and criminal
prosecution.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and
incidents portrayed in it are entirely the work of the author’s
imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events or locations is entirely coincidental.
Printed in Great Britain by Cox and Wyman
Fathom is an imprint of Rowmark Limited
In_Cold_Daylight.pmd 19/11/2005, 13:17 2
Top
Page No 3
PAULINE ROWSON
Pauline Rowson was raised in Portsmouth, the
setting for her crime novels. For many years she
ran her own marketing and public relations
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agency and is now a writer and a professional
conference speaker. She is the author of several
marketing, self-help and motivational books. She
lives in Hampshire and can never be far from
the sea for any length of time without suffering
withdrawal symptoms.
In_Cold_Daylight.pmd 19/11/2005, 13:17 3
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Page No 4
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Fiction
Tide of Death
Non-fiction
Communicating With More Confidence
Being Positive and Staying Positive
Marketing
Successful Selling
Telemarketing, Cold Calling & Appointment Making
Building a Positive Media Profile
Fundraising for Your School
Publishing and Promoting Your Book
Pauline Rowson
In_Cold_Daylight.pmd 19/11/2005, 13:17 4
Top
Page No 5
For Chrissy and my mum
For fire fighters everywhere – the true heroes –
and especially for Bob and Red Watch, Southsea
In_Cold_Daylight.pmd 19/11/2005, 13:17 5
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Page No 6
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This novel is set primarily in Portsmouth,
Hampshire, on the south coast of England.
Residents and visitors of Portsmouth must
forgive the author for using her imagination and
poetic licence in changing the names of places,
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Page 8
streets and locations. This novel is entirely a work
of fiction. The names, characters, businesses,
locations and incidents portrayed in it are entirely
the work of the author’s imagination. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events or locations is entirely coincidental.
In_Cold_Daylight.pmd 19/11/2005, 13:17 6
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Page No 7
PROLOGUE
I
f it hadn’t been for the break-in on the day of
the funeral I might never have got involved.
But that and Jack’s note urging me to take care
of his wife, Rosie, obliged me. I had let him down
in life; I wasn’t about to let him down in death.
Danger wasn’t usually my kind of thing,
though. I was just happy to let things be. But the
past has a nasty habit of catching up with you
and mine had done just that. As I stood around
Jack’s grave in the bleak Portsmouth cemetery
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Page No 8
PAULINE R OWSON 8
in December the memory of another funeral
fifteen years ago had rushed in and almost
suffocated me.
I tried to shut out the image but I couldn’t.
Some things never went away. They just lay in
wait for you. I wanted to leave but knew I
couldn’t.
I had closed my eyes and tried to block out the
past but it refused to go. I knew then that it
wouldn’t. I had run away once. This time I had a
feeling that running away wouldn’t be an option.
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Page No 9
IN C OLD D AYLIGHT 9
CHAPTER 1
I
woke with the mother of all hangovers. I could
hear my wife Faye moving about the house. I
groaned and reached for the clock only to find
my arm waving in thin air. I peeled open my eyes.
The electric light stabbed at me like a laser beam.
Of course I was in the lounge. It was the day
after Jack’s funeral. I hadn’t been able to sleep.
My mouth felt like sandpaper; my tongue two
sizes too big for me.
What on earth was Faye doing? She sounded
as if she was trying to break the record for the
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Page No 10
PAULINE R OWSON 10
number of times she could circumnavigate the
house wearing hobnailed boots whilst spinning
crockery. I guessed she was punishing me for
going to Rosie’s aid last night, but what was I
supposed to do? Rosie had only just buried her
husband, and to return home from the wake to
find her house ransacked… I couldn’t leave her
to face that alone. And I couldn’t let Jack down.
‘Look after Rosie for me, Adam’. The words on Jack’s
last message to me obliged me, but I would have
gone anyway.
I wasn’t usually in favour of corporal
punishment; last night had changed my mind. I
thought hanging was too good for the burglars.
The odd thing was though, nothing had been
taken, or so Rosie’s daughter, Sarah, had said after
a quick check round. Rosie’s jewellery was still
in her bedroom and even I could see, through
the chaos of strewn condolence cards and
flowers, that the TV and hi fi were in the lounge,
and intact. I’d only glimpsed Jack’s study but it
was enough for me to notice that the computer
had been smashed but not the printer. Why that
and nothing else? It didn’t make any sense, but
then neither did Jack’s death.
Sarah had taken her mother back to her flat
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Page No 11
IN C OLD D AYLIGHT 11
whilst I had stayed behind to talk to the police
and arrange for the locksmith to change the
busted front door lock. It was the least I could
do.
‘You’re awake then.’ Faye’s reproachful tone
was like barbed wire in my brain.
I opened my eyes again and grunted. Faye was
looking at me as if I was something the cat had
sicked up on the carpet. Remembering our row
last night I wasn’t surprised. Faye had wanted
me to take her out to celebrate winning her first
new client account since her promotion to
account director at the London advertising
agency where she worked. Instead I had dumped
her for Jack’s widow. I tried smiling but that must
have made me look worse because she tutted and
tossed her blonde hair.
‘How much did you drink last night, Adam?’
I watched her pick up the television remote
control and put it beside the television set. Faye
always liked things in their proper place and I
wasn’t where I should have been. I thought if
she could pick me up and tidy me away she’d be
happy. Her pretty face was frowning as she lifted
the almost empty whisky bottle with thumb and
forefinger. I felt a stab of guilt as she carried it as
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Page No 12
PAULINE R OWSON 12
through to the kitchen as if it were contaminated.
‘Does it matter?’ I heaved myself up on one
arm.
‘Of course it matters. I don’t wish to be married
to a drunk.’
She returned from the kitchen and stared down
at me, her hands on her slender hips. She was
dressed for work in a smart black trouser suit.
‘What time is it?’ I asked.
‘Time you did some work. You can’t mourn
forever. Jack wouldn’t want you to.’
Since Rosie had telephoned me to say that Jack
was dead I hadn’t been able to lift a paintbrush.
That was twelve days ago. I was beginning to
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wonder if I would ever paint again.
‘You’ll miss your train,’ I grunted, standing up
and making a valiant attempt not to stagger. The
expression on her face told me I’d said the wrong
thing.
‘I’m taking the car to London and I’m staying
in the agency flat until Friday. In case you haven’t
noticed Christmas is less than three weeks away
and I’ve got a great deal to do.’
‘When did you decide this?’ I asked surprised,
stumbling into the kitchen and almost tripping
over Boudicca who give a loud meow and glared
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Page No 13
IN C OLD D AYLIGHT 13
at me. Not you too, I thought, flicking on the
kettle. I turned to face Faye then wished I hadn’t
as the movement caused my head to spin.
‘Last night, after you rushed out. I called
Stewart. He said it was OK.’
Was this my punishment for going to the aid
of my best friend’s widow? I’d never met Faye’s
boss, but I didn’t much care for him, probably
because I was sick of hearing about him.
She continued, ‘I thought it would give you
time to do some work and prepare for the
exhibition on Saturday. I’ve gone to a great deal
of trouble to get a top London gallery owner
down for it, not to mention the Lord Mayor of
Portsmouth and our MP.’
‘I know. I haven’t forgotten,’ I only wished I
could. Faye was determined to make me into a
household name. Me? I wouldn’t even have
bothered to have an exhibition. Or if I had to, I
would have preferred to absent myself. I find
showing off my work excruciatingly
embarrassing. A decided drawback for an artist.
I reached for a mug and spooned in some
coffee. I opened my mouth to talk about Rosie
but Faye got there first.
‘Are you even going to try and paint today?’
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PAULINE R OWSON 14
Faye eyed me with contempt.
‘You’ll miss your car.’ Further discussion was
pointless.
She snatched up her briefcase and car keys,
glared at me and stomped out. ‘And that is that,’
I said to the cat who lifted her head as if to say
what did you expect, then turned tail on me and
hopped through the cat flap.
I drank my coffee slumped on the sofa. I’m
not very good at arguing. Giving in is more my
speciality. Faye was understandably peeved that
I had deserted her in her hour of glory. Perhaps I
should call her and apologise? I hate an
atmosphere. Maybe later.
I closed my eyes but couldn’t blot out the
events of the previous night. The police had said
drug addicts were probably to blame for the
break-in, but what sort of drug addicts would
leave jewellery and other items that could have
been sold for a quick buck? I had voiced my
opinion to the younger, stouter police officer.
He’d said, ‘If they’re drugged up, sir, who knows
what is going through their mind.’ I thought his
reply a cop-out but then he didn’t know about
my last conversation with Jack.
‘I’m being followed,’ Jack had said when I had
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Page No 15
IN C OLD D AYLIGHT 15
telephoned him two weeks ago. I had laughed
and told him he was being paranoid.
‘Why would anyone want to follow you?’ I had
teased.
‘I can’t tell you yet, Adam, it’s too dangerous,
but I’m almost there.’
‘Where?’
‘At the truth, give me a few more days.’
Only Jack hadn’t had a few more days. The
day after he had entered a derelict burning
building. It was his job putting out fires. It could
have happened to any fire fighter. But it hadn’t.
It had happened to Jack. I wasn’t laughing now.
I poured the remainder of my coffee down the
sink staring out across the windswept garden to
the rising slopes of Portsdown Hill. Two forlorn-
looking ponies shivered in the cold. Jack wasn’t
given to hallucinations. If he said someone was
following him then they were, but who and why?
What was he doing that was dangerous? And why
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send me the postcard? I wasn’t going to get the
answers by staring out of windows.
I threw on some old clothes and trekked across
the garden to my studio. The smattering of snow
that had covered that hummock of earth in the
bleak cemetery yesterday had vanished overnight
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Page No 16
PAULINE R OWSON 16
leaving in its wake a chill grey day, damp and
miserable.
I gazed at the canvasses of seascapes hating
them all, seeing nothing but mediocrity before
my eyes travelled to Jack’s postcard. I had only
received it yesterday even though it had been
posted the day Jack had died. I guessed it had got
caught up in the Christmas mail. It had been a
shock seeing his handwriting, and a puzzle as to
why he had written it and what he had written. I
didn’t need to read it again because every word
was etched on my mind but I unpinned it and
turned over the picture of Turner’s ‘The Fighting
Temeraire’.
Look after ‘Rosie’ for me, Adam. You’re an accomplished
artist and a good friend. Happy Sailing!
Best Jack
4 July 1994
Why date it July when he had sent it in
December? Why put the year as 1994 when it
was 2006? And why had he underlined certain
letters? S I E D N G O. It was some sort of code.
I wasn’t good at word puzzles like Jack had been.
The only words that leapt out at me were DIES,
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Page No 17
IN C OLD D AYLIGHT 17
ENDS and GOD. It was as if Jack knew he was
going to die. But that was ridiculous; how could
he have known that a gas cylinder would explode
the moment he rushed in?
I recalled my conversation with Steve Langton,
at the wake. He was a friend and a DI at the city
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police station. I hadn’t told him about the
postcard or my last conversation with Jack.
‘Any more news on the fire?’ I had asked him.
‘Nothing. We’ve questioned the local kids and
carried out a house to house but you know that
area, they’d rather shield a murderer than co-
operate with the police.’
‘Do you think it was intentional?’
‘You mean that gas cylinder placed inside
deliberately and the building flashed up? It looks
like it to me and to fire investigations; they found
traces of an accelerant. Whether it was kids
larking around or some nutter who gets his
sexual jollies from setting fire to things and then
watching big red fire engines turn up I don’t
know. But we’re still on the case; I’ll get to the
truth.’
And there was that word again: truth. What was
the truth? And had kids or a nutcase really caused
Jack’s death? Could someone have planted that
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Page No 18
PAULINE R OWSON 18
gas cylinder knowing that Jack would be the first
to enter that burning building? If so, how? There
was only one way to find out and that was to ask
Jack’s colleagues. I hadn’t liked to yesterday, since
the wake was hardly the appropriate place, but
this morning was different.
I climbed on my motorbike and headed down
into the city, diverting to Rosie’s on the way. If I
could just get into Jack’s study I might find
something that could give me some idea of what
he had been doing. I was disappointed to find
no one in but not surprised. I was about to leave
when a window screeched open to my right.
‘Can I help?’
I craned my neck to the first floor bay window
of the house next door. A woman with short
spiky brown hair was eyeing me curiously.
I was about to politely refuse when I had
second thoughts. ‘You might be able to.’
‘Hang on. I’ll come down.’
She was in her early thirties and dressed
scruffily in faded jeans and a T-shirt that Faye
wouldn’t even have done the housework in. I
hadn’t seen her at the funeral. I would have
remembered those olive-green eyes and that elfin
face.
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Page No 19
IN C OLD D AYLIGHT 19
‘I’m Adam Greene, a friend of Rosie’s,’ I
introduced myself.
‘How is she? I must call round.’
‘She’s at her daughter’s, but she’ll be back later.
Did you hear about the break-in, yesterday?’
‘No! How awful. The bastards.’
‘My sentiments exactly. I was wondering if you
saw or heard anything suspicious between three
and seven o’clock.’
‘No. I had an appointment in London, which
was why I couldn’t make the funeral. I can ask
my landlady, Sharon. I’m only the lodger: Jody
Piers.’
‘If she remembers anything perhaps you’d ask
her to give me a call.’ I handed her my card.
‘Marine artist,’ she said, studying it. ‘We have
something in common. I’m a marine biologist.’
My eyes connected with hers for a fleeting
moment. I liked what I saw. I liked even more
how I felt before I told myself that I was married.
She said, ‘Shouldn’t the police be doing this,
asking questions?’
I pulled myself together and said, ‘They
probably will.’ I saw her sceptical look. It made
me smile.
‘Was Jack your friend?’
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PAULINE R OWSON 20
‘Yes.’
‘You must be feeling like shit.’
That was putting it mildly. A woman I didn’t
know had summed up my emotions more
completely than my wife.
I had trouble getting those olive-green eyes out
of my mind as I weaved my way through the
heavy pre-Christmas traffic to the fire station. I
didn’t mind. They were nice eyes and they
helped to replace that picture of Jack’s coffin.
But not Jack or my feelings of guilt. Why hadn’t I
seen more of him over the last couple of months?
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I might then have discovered what the devil he’d
been up to. But I’d been too intent on finishing
off the paintings for the exhibition. I cursed
myself, and Faye, for that. Jack was one of the
most laid back men I had ever known and yet
his voice had sounded urgent and troubled in
that last conversation. And I’d ignored it.
I was told that Red Watch weren’t on duty again
until Friday, three days away. Damn. I would have
to wait until then because I didn’t know any of
them personally apart from Des Brookfield who
had come sailing with us a few times in the past
before buying his own boat. He was no longer
on the watch but stationed at headquarters. I had
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IN C OLD D AYLIGHT 21
never really liked him. He was too flash, too
ambitious, too everything for me. He had been
at the funeral looking important in his uniform,
a distraught expression on his swarthy features.
Of course he was upset, I told myself, but with
Brookfield it always looked like an act rather than
the genuine article. I was probably doing him a
disservice. Anyway he would hardly know what
Jack had been doing. There seemed little I could
do until Friday unless Rosie returned home soon
and I could ask her. She might know.
I swung into one of the parking bays along the
seafront, as far away from the fun fair as I could
get and pulled off my helmet. As I sniffed the
salt air and stared across the grey turbulent sea
to the Isle of Wight, Jack’s words came back to
me: ‘Listen to the sea, Adam. She has all the
answers.’ Answers to what, I thought, when I
hardly knew the questions!
Jack’s message flashed into my mind: Happy
Sailing! A reference, I guessed, to the fact that in
October I had bought his yacht. How could I be
happy sailing her now when every moment
aboard would remind me of those happier times
with Jack: the laughs and the drinks, the serious
conversations and the companionable silences.
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PAULINE R OWSON 22
God, I would miss him. Just as I had missed Alison .
I tensed. I had tried to forget her. I thought I had
succeeded until yesterday when Jack’s funeral
had pulled me back. Now I knew the memory
of my former girlfriend – though that word
hardly expressed how much she’d meant to me
– would never leave me. Nor would that of her
violent and unexpected death. I had come to
Portsmouth twelve years ago to forget. It wasn’t
far enough. Nowhere ever would be.
I didn’t want to think of her. Jack. Think of
Jack. But somehow I knew Alison would
continue to intrude on my thoughts. She wasn’t
going to go away, just as the puzzle over Jack’s
death wasn’t going to until I solved it.
Action was what I needed. I started the bike
and swung it round as another motorbike drew
up a few yards from me. The driver removed his
helmet. He looked vaguely familiar but I couldn’t
place him. I nodded at him but got no response.
Perhaps I was mistaken.
I returned home and had another stab at the
coded message. I got a further half a dozen words
from the letters that Jack had underlined;
including SINGED. It wasn’t much help.
‘What was Jack doing, Boudicca?’ I asked the
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cat who opened one lazy eye at me as if to say
how the devil should I know?
‘No, me neither.’
I wondered if I would ever know, but I knew I
had to try and find out.
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CHAPTER 2
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R
osie’s sleep-starved face matched my own
as she let me in the next morning. She was
so thin that I thought she would slip through a
crack in the pavement if she stepped outside. She
was still in black save for a silver locket.
I followed her through to the lounge and drew
up amazed. The condolence cards were back on
the mantelshelf and on the book cabinets, some
of the flowers had been rescued and new ones
filled a couple of vases. The furniture was all in
its proper place.
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‘You’ve worked very hard,’ I said, unzipping
my leather jacket and pulling it off.
‘Not me, the children and Jody, my neighbour.
Everyone’s been so kind especially you, Adam. I
can’t thank you enough for what you did.’
‘It was nothing. Jack was a good friend.’ My
eyes fell on photographs of him around the
room. What I wouldn’t have given at that
moment to hear his voice call out from the
bedroom or the kitchen, ‘Be there in just a tick,
mate, running late.’ Jack was always running late
except for his death, which was the only time he
had ever been early. Too early.
I removed my jacket and put it on the parquet
flooring along with my helmet and gloves, then
sat down opposite her. All night I’d wrestled
with Jack’s code to no avail. When I had finally
slept I had dreamt of the blessed thing. I was
grateful to it though for keeping memories of
Alison at bay. My subconscious had performed
as miserably as my conscious mind. I still
hadn’t cracked it. I was counting on Rosie
enlightening me, or at least finding something
in Jack’s study that could point me in the right
direction.
‘I’m glad you came round, Adam. I didn’t get a
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PAULINE R OWSON 26
chance to speak to you at the wake, and it was
hardly the place.’
She knew. She was about to tell me what Jack
had meant by that last conversation. She appeared
nervous and I wondered what was coming next.
I hoped it would be the answer to that code.
‘I have to know the truth, Adam, and if Jack
confided in anyone it would have been you. Was
Jack having an affair?’
I started. That was the last thing I’d expected
to hear. And it was utter nonsense. ‘Of course
he wasn’t.’
‘Then why was he so moody and secretive?
You know that wasn’t like him, he was always so
cheerful and easy going.’
‘It wasn’t an affair, Rosie.’
I should tell her about Jack’s last conversation
with me. I should mention the postcard. But I
couldn’t. It was obvious to me now that Jack
hadn’t confided in her and his last message to
me was clear in one respect: Look after Rosie for
me. He didn’t want her to know.
‘We rowed before he went on shift that night,’
she continued. ‘I wish we hadn’t. I loved him so
much…’
I swiftly crossed to her side and lifted her thin
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hand in mine. ‘Jack loved you.’
It was as if she hadn’t heard me. ‘He used to
spend hours upstairs in his study. He’d lock the
door. Why? What was he doing?’
What indeed? Perhaps he’d left something on
his computer that could tell me. Then I
remembered seeing the computer hard drive
smashed. I was beginning to get a very bad feeling
about all this and a little voice in my head was
saying, back out now while you still can.
Rosie said, ‘There were telephone calls too but
when I answered, the line would go dead. It has
to be another woman. Perhaps she broke in and
wrecked the house.’
I doubted it but who did? What on earth could
Jack have been doing to warrant such violent
action? If I followed in his footsteps would I
incur some of the same? I glanced across at his
photograph, thanks mate, I silently and cynically
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uttered and could almost imagine his smile
before his expression darkened with worry and
the strains of his urgent voice came back to me.
I turned my attention back to Rosie who
seemed to have shrunken in on herself. I wanted
to wipe that pain from her eyes. Squeezing her
hand, I said, ‘The police said it was drug addicts.’
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‘They’re wrong then. Her name’s Stella
Hardway. I heard Jack asking for her on the
telephone. He thought I was out. I looked her
up in the telephone directory but she’s not listed.’
I still couldn’t believe it. I’d known Jack for
twelve years and in all that time he’d not so much
as glanced at another woman. I thought it more
likely this Stella had something to do with
whatever it was Jack was investigating.
‘I was wondering, Adam, if you’d mind taking
a look in his study. I can’t bear to go in there and
I wouldn’t let Sarah or John touch it. Only there
might be something…’
There might. It was what I had been hoping
for and what I had come here to do. ‘Of course,’
I said eagerly, hoping that Rosie didn’t want to
come with me.
‘I’ll get you a coffee, Adam.’
I didn’t want one but it gave her something to
do and left me in peace to get on with my search.
I picked my way through the debris feeling
anger knot my stomach at the sight of so much
devastation. It was as if someone had desecrated
Jack’s life. A lump came to my throat and I
struggled to get my emotions under control.
Through the window I could see the tall palms
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and leylandii that Jack had planted at the end of
the garden to screen him from his neighbours,
which were swaying in a brisk wet wind. There
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was raised decking, a swirling gravel path and a
small conservatory. I could see Jack out there now
pottering around watering the plants and cursing
the cats.
I took a deep breath and faced the room. It was
difficult to know where to start but start I had
to. I righted the chair and put the drawers back
into the desk before bending down to retrieve
some of their contents, but my hand hovered
over one of the photographs. Why had the
intruder removed each photograph from its
frame and then smashed the frames? The books
too looked as if they had been thumbed through
and tossed on the floor each one lay flat, nearly
all facing up. If the intruder had run his hand
along the shelves scooping them all up then
surely they would be lying in any old heap?
I picked up one of the photographs. Jack was
in uniform along with some of his colleagues
from Red Watch. They were perched on a
specially made eight-seater bicycle. Jack was in
the front and the photographer had captured the
other seven men, with their heads sticking out,
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PAULINE R OWSON 30
behind him. I turned the photograph over; on
the back Jack had written, ‘ Red Watch – Charity
Cycle Ride 1993’ and the men’s names. It had been
taken the year before I met him.
My mind went back to that dreary May day in
1994. I had not long arrived from London. I had
been sitting in a pub overlooking the harbour
hugging my beer and feeling so low that I was
contemplating ending it all. My life seemed so
pointless after Alison’s death.
Again, with her memory, came the tightening
of my chest and the tingling in my hands. I gave
up trying to push her memory away. It was
pointless. Instead I let my mind go back to the
first time I had met her. It was at the freshers’
fair at Oxford. I had heard her laugh before I’d
seen her. Her zest for life after my bleak
childhood and adolescence was like the spring
after a long cold winter. I had found love. It had
ended on a Saturday afternoon in my second year
at university when she had fallen from a third
floor window to her death.
My hands were trembling slightly as I put the
photograph aside and began to sift through the
debris, but as I methodically began to match up
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the discarded contents of the lever arch files with
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the names on their spines, they became still, my
racing heart settled down and Alison faded away.
It was a boring job but I persevered. There were
household bills, bank statements and insurances.
Finally I realised there was one blank file with
no name on the spine and as far as I could see no
missing contents. But there had been a label on
it matching the others because I felt the spine
and it was sticky.
There was a tap on the door and Rosie entered
clutching a mug of coffee. Her eyes quickly
scanned the devastation and then flickered up to
me.
‘I didn’t know it was this bad, Adam. I
shouldn’t have asked you.’
‘It’s fine. I’ve got nothing else to do.’ Except
paint but that was out of the question.
She left me to it. I picked up the cellotape,
scissors and other bits of stationery and put them
back into a drawer. Jack’s sailing and car
magazines I replaced in the magazine holders.
Then I tackled the books one by one, flicking
through them and replacing them on the shelves.
There were several novels by Reginald Hill and
Robert Goddard; a handful of sporting
biographies, a small Bible presented to Jack as a
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PAULINE R OWSON 32
young boy, along with two adventure books he’d
won as prizes at school, a few travel books and
some old editions of comic books.
I retrieved the smashed photograph frames,
carefully lifting them so as not to cut myself on
the broken glass, and laid them out on the desk
with the photographs on top of them. There were
photographs of Jack in the Navy before he joined
the Fire Service; Jack in the football team at
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school aged eleven and Jack in the local cricket
team. But there was one missing. I counted eight
photograph frames but only seven photographs.
I looked again but couldn’t find it. Perhaps like
the blank lever arch file there had been an empty
frame to begin with. But as I closed the door
behind me they weren’t the only things missing:
where were Jack’s back-up disks and his diary?
Rosie looked up as I entered the kitchen. ‘Did
you find anything?’
I knew she was referring to Stella Hardway. I
shook my head. It was what I hadn’t found that
worried me. I spread the photographs out on the
kitchen work surface. ‘Do you know if any of
Jack’s framed photos are missing? These are all I
could find.’
She glanced down at them and her eyes filled
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with tears. ‘I’m not sure. I can’t remember exactly
what he had on his walls. Silly, isn’t it, I should
remember.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s not important.’ I quickly
gathered them up. Then I held up the cycle ride
photograph. ‘Do you think I could keep this
one?’
She took it from me with a forlorn expression.
‘I remember the day this was taken. There have
been so many changes on that watch since then.
There’s only Brian left now and he almost got
killed with Jack. Des Brookfield is a divisional
officer at headquarters, Sam Frensham has a hotel
in the Cotswolds and Dave Caton lives in
France.’ As she spoke she pointed to the men in
the photograph. ‘I’m not sure about Sandy
Ditton; I didn’t really know him that well or
young Scott Burnham who was only on the
watch a short time before he died of cancer. Now
I come to think of it, Tony and Duggie also died
of cancer. No, you keep it, Adam.’ She thrust it
back at me. ‘I’ve got plenty of other photographs
to remind me of Jack. Not that I need them, he’s
so much a part of me.’
‘I couldn’t find Jack’s computer back-up disks.
Do you know where he kept them?’ I asked
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casually as I smiled my thanks. My heart was
beating a little faster as I waited for her answer.
Was she about to confirm my belief that the
intruder’s real intention had been to remove any
evidence of Jack’s investigation, whatever that
was, and the destruction created because of his
frantic search of the house?
‘In his study, I thought.’ She looked surprised.
‘You haven’t got a safe?’
‘No.’
‘Would he have given them to Sarah or John?’
‘I doubt it, but I can check…’
I forestalled her. ‘What about his diary?’
‘Isn’t that there?’ Now she looked puzzled. ‘I’ll
call Sarah, see if she knows.’
Whilst she was telephoning her daughter, I
poured the remainder of my coffee down the sink
and swilled it round. The kitchen had been
cleaned and tidied since the break-in but I could
still see the red and brown stains on the floor
where the jam and sauces had been ground in
during the break-in. Nothing short of new
flooring would get rid of them.
I could hear the gentle rise and fall of Rosie’s
voice while I went on thinking about those
missing items. It all seemed incredible, like
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something out of a John Le Carré novel. I told
myself for the hundredth time that I must be
imagining all this and that there was probably
some simple explanation for it.
Rosie returned to tell me that neither Sarah
nor John knew anything about disks or Jack’s
diary. ‘I know they weren’t in his locker at work.’
‘Perhaps he gave them to someone else on the
station. I could check.’
‘You will tell me if you find out anything about
her, won’t you? Jack might have confided in a
colleague. They won’t want to tell me for fear of
upsetting me, but they might tell you the truth.’
And there was that word again. ‘I’m almost
there… at the truth.’ Why would Jack say that if it
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were another woman? Put simply, because it
wasn’t.
The phone was ringing as I let myself in. I
thought it might be Faye.
‘Adam, it’s Simon.’
I couldn’t speak.
‘Adam, are you there?’
I thought about putting the phone down, or
saying wrong number. It had been fifteen years
since I’d seen or spoken to my brother. Why now,
I thought, when I had enough to occupy my
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mind without having to cope with all the
emotions that Simon conjured up in me?
‘What do you want, Simon?’
‘It’s Father; he’s had a stroke. He’s in St
Thomas’s, London. You’d better come up. How
long will it take you to get here?’
‘About an hour and a half –’
‘I’ll meet you in the reception.’
‘Simon, I can’t…’ But the line was already
dead.
I replaced the telephone slowly, feeling as if
the tide were rushing in at me from all sides
leaving me stranded on a rock with no way out.
First Alison had returned to haunt me and now
a summons from my estranged brother to see
the father from whom I had distanced myself
for what I had thought was forever. Simon still
assumed he could command and I’d simply obey.
But then why shouldn’t he? He had always got
his own way in the past.
I didn’t want to go but I knew I had to. There
were many times in my life when I wouldn’t face
my fear but this, I knew, wasn’t one of them.
This time I had to do it. Damn! Jack’s code would
have to wait; nevertheless I stuffed his postcard
in my pocket.
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CHAPTER 3
I
made good time. Simon was waiting for me
but not in reception. I found him sitting on
the edge of one of the beige, vinyl-covered
armchairs that lined the small, grey
institutionalised room just down the corridor
from the Intensive Care Unit. He was leaning
forward, his knees apart, hands clasped between
them, staring at the floor, his left leg jigging
impatiently.
His head came up sharply as I entered and he
frowned, but then his expression cleared as
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recognition dawned. He leapt up and stretched
out a hand, with a smile that was perfunctory
and condescending.
As I felt the dry, vice-like grip all my memories
flooded back: the fair-haired boy eight years my
senior, clever, confident, forceful, Father’s
favourite; the successful son not the one who
had failed and so abjectly and publicly.
‘He’s still unconscious.’ Simon moved away,
running a hand through his hair. He was going
grey at the temples, I noticed. There were no
preliminaries; no ‘how are you’ and ‘it’s good to
see you.’ I hadn’t really expected them. If we’d
been reunited after thirty years instead of fifteen
Simon would still have dispensed with the small
talk.
‘God knows when or even if he’ll ever come
round,’ he continued. ‘I’m waiting for the doctor
but you know what these places are like, we could
be here all night.’ He began to pace the room
and his presence seemed to take up all the space
and air, making me feel insignificant. I wasn’t, I
told myself, but couldn’t believe it. Not here.
Simon had put on weight and had acquired an
extra layer of sleekness to go with it. The well-
cut and expensive light grey suit fitted him to
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perfection. His black shoes were polished to
within an inch of their life and his jewellery, a
wedding ring and Rolex were discreet. He
exuded confidence, wealth and power. He wasn’t
at all what you expected from the traditional
image of a scientist. With a first class honours
degree in Molecular Science, Simon had
followed in Father’s footsteps. Next had come a
PhD in Biomedical Sciences and then a Member
of the Royal Society of Chemistry. Simon had
been an expert in DNA technology at a young
age, which had made his name in scientific circles
and had helped him to build up a substantial
biotechnology company and a considerable
amount of money if the broadsheets were to be
believed.
‘Who found him?’ I asked, unzipping my
leather jacket and pulling it off.
‘His housekeeper, this morning.’
‘You’ve been here all day?’
Simon shook his head and frowned at my
apparent stupidity. ‘Of course not. She
discovered him at the bottom of the stairs this
morning when she arrived for work and thought
at first he’d had a fall, or a heart attack. I didn’t
get the message until I returned to the laboratory
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after lunch. I came straight up from Bath. Had
to cancel God knows how many meetings.’
Inconvenient, I felt like saying dryly, but
sarcasm had been my father’s trait not mine. I
wondered what I was doing here. I felt no
affection for my father. There was too much in
my past that I couldn’t forgive him for: the
hurtful words, the disdainful looks, the sneers,
and put downs, the lack of love. But here I was.
Simon said, ‘I’ve spoken to someone who
called herself a doctor, looked more like a child
on work experience to me. I said I wanted to
speak to the consultant or the senior physician
at least but that was hours ago, and this is the
NHS, so goodness knows when that’s likely to
be.’
I hoped Simon hadn’t made his feelings that
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plain. It seemed that age hadn’t mellowed him,
quite the opposite. All the way up here I’d
wondered if he would have changed. And Father?
If he was conscious and I was to see him, how
would he react to me? Would he have changed?
I wasn’t counting on it, in my experience people
rarely did. I sat down, which seemed to goad
Simon further.
‘I suppose you’re just going to wait for
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someone to show up,’ Simon scoffed. ‘I’m not.
I’ve already wasted half a day and I’m damned
sure I’m not going to waste a complete evening.’
‘Simon…’ But he was heading out of the door
just as a man with a stethoscope draped around
his neck was entering. They almost collided. The
doctor stepped back but I was pleased to see he
didn’t flinch under Simon’s hostile glare.
‘Mr Greene?’
‘Dr Greene,’ Simon corrected. ‘How is he?
What’s the prognosis?’
‘I’m Dr Newberry, the senior physician in
charge of the Intensive Care Unit and looking
after your father,’ he announced, seemingly
unfazed by Simon’s domineering behaviour. I
warmed to the man. He was in his mid forties,
about the same age and height as Simon, but
slender and balding, and where Simon looked
the picture of affluence and health Dr Newberry
looked as if he was on his last pair of trainers and
trousers and wouldn’t be able to get through the
night without falling asleep on the job. Simon
refused to sit and loomed over us.
Dr Newberry addressed us both, his eye
contact flicking between us. ‘Your father is
unconscious but he is comfortable. We’re
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arranging for a scan, which will give us a clearer
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image of the blood flow, and of how much
damage there is. Then we will be able to give
you a better prognosis.’ His voice was gentle but
firm. ‘If it’s any consolation he’s not in pain. You
can see him if you wish and of course you are
welcome to stay as long as you want but there
really is very little you can do. If you return
tomorrow you should be able to see the
consultant who will be in a better position to
give you more information.’
‘And that’s it?’ Simon declared.
Dr Newberry remained silent but held
Simon’s stare, which seemed to infuriate him.
In order to prevent another outburst I rose and
surprised myself by saying, ‘I’d like to see him.’
With a grunt Simon followed as Newberry led
us along a short corridor and into an open plan
intensive care unit. It was dimly lit and hushed
save for the bleeping of machines and the swish
of uniform as the staff went about their business.
The heat clawed at my throat and I tried not to
look at the comatose figures on the beds either
side of me. At the far end of the room the nurse
rose as we reached the last bed and stepped away
to allow us privacy.
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I felt my body tense and hoped that Simon
hadn’t noticed it. I silently urged myself to
breathe steadily and to keep calm. As my eyes
fell on the motionless figure lying on the hospital
bed I experienced a shock. Surely this wasn’t the
man who had bullied me for most of my
childhood, who had made me feel so inadequate?
There were no clear blue eyes boring into me
accusingly, no sardonic smile, no disdainful or
pitying looks. It was fifteen years since I had seen
my father and it was that final image that had
stayed with me. Here in front of me now was a
frail body, the grey face lined, the thin, wispy
white hair flattened against a narrow egg-shaped
head, bristle on the chin, chest skeletal.
I turned away feeling angry, not that my father
should end up like this but for all the years I’d
wasted being afraid of him, of living in awe and
terror of him, yet he was nothing but flesh and
blood after all, just like the rest of us.
I heard Simon hurrying after me. ‘You’re
leaving?’
‘There’s nothing I can do here.’
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‘I’ll have to come back tomorrow to hear what
this consultant has to say unless you…’
‘I can’t,’ I said sharply, feeling the panic rising.
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I didn’t want to be with my father. I didn’t want
to be in London. There were too many memories
here for me. This was where Alison was buried
and this was where I had experienced my mental
breakdown after her death.
‘I don’t see why not. I’m very busy, Adam.’
‘So am I,’ I retorted, and I was. Jack was relying
on me to get to the truth. When I had needed a
friend he had been there. I wasn’t going to let
him down.
Simon said, ‘At least have a drink. After all we
haven’t seen each other for years.’
I stared at him for a moment wondering what
had brought about this volte face. Simon, like
father, had been unsympathetic over my
breakdown. As far as they had been concerned I
had shamed the family name. Curiosity got the
better of me and I said, ‘OK.’
We found a wine bar around the corner from
the hospital in Belvedere Road. It was already
fairly crowded with people getting into the
Christmas spirit. There was little chance that
Faye would come here; the office and flat were
in Convent Garden. If Father died I would have
to tell her about him and Simon. Just one more
secret I had kept from her and one more lie. As
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far as Faye was concerned I had no family. And I
had never breathed a word to her about Alison
or my breakdown. From the beginning of our
relationship I had known that Faye wouldn’t
understand. It wasn’t until now though that I
admitted it to myself. I felt the stirrings of unease
where my feelings for Faye were concerned.
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Over recent months we had drifted apart. I told
myself it was because of her working in London
and the demands of her new job, but I knew it
had nothing to do with that.
Simon returned from the bar with a bottle of
wine and a coke. I took the coke. We found a
table in a dark corner near the gents’ toilet as
more people came in shaking out umbrellas and
pulling off raincoats.
‘You realise he might not be able to return
home,’ I said. ‘He’ll probably have to go into a
nursing home.’ And how he would hate that, I
thought. He’d always despised illness of any kind
seeing it as weakness and often self-inflicted.
‘That will cost a bloody fortune,’ grumbled
Simon. He poured himself a large glass of red
wine and drank almost half of it in one go.
‘You can sell the house. It should fetch quite a
price.’
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‘You haven’t seen it. It’s falling to pieces.’
And I didn’t want to see it, ever.
Simon sniffed. ‘I suppose you’ll leave all that
to me to arrange?’
His eyes bored into mine. If he was trying to
intimidate me then he was failing. I remained
silent. I guessed this was the purpose behind
Simon’s invitation. He wanted to dump all this
on me. After a moment Simon was forced to
continue.
‘Harriet will have to see to it. She’s got plenty
of time now the children are at boarding school.’
I had scored a minor victory. ‘How is Harriet?’
I had vague recollections of a tall, slim girl with
an oval face, perfect complexion and long straight
blonde hair. I had no recollections of her
personality.
Simon helped himself to another large glass of
wine. ‘She’s all right.’
The conversation ground to a halt. I didn’t
know what to say to him. We were like strangers.
What was I doing here wasting time? Into my
mind flashed those seven letters SIEDNGO.
What other words could I get out of them apart
from GOD and DIES? SIGN? SIGNED? Why
had Jack signed it 4 th July 1994? That must have
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some significance. What had happened on that
date? Perhaps I should look it up in an almanac
or on the Internet?
Someone laughed uproariously at a nearby
table startling me out of my reverie. I saw
Simon’s disapproval. I guessed this wasn’t his
sort of place.
‘Are you still involved in research?’ I asked. I
knew he was but if I could keep him talking about
himself it wouldn’t give him time to pry into
my affairs.
‘Don’t you ever read the newspapers?’
‘Not unless I have to.’ I said evasively, taking a
swig of my coke.
‘We’re working on a number of projects:
treatments for osteoporosis, obesity and cancer.
That’s why I can’t spare the time up here, Adam.
It’s a race against the clock to develop the vaccine
or drug before anyone else does and before the
money runs out.’
I thought of that charity cycle ride photograph
and Rosie’s words. Three of the fire fighters in
the photograph had died of cancer.
‘You really think you can come up with
something to help cure cancer?’ I asked.
‘Cure? No. Treat, yes, or perhaps a vaccine
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PAULINE R OWSON 48
for certain types. And that’s the trouble there
are so many different forms of cancer and so
many different causes. It’s not just down to
genetics; the environment is to blame for many
cancers.’
‘How?’
‘Exposure to synthetic chemicals, natural
toxins, industrial processes, drugs, and viruses
not to mention sunlight. Twenty to thirty percent
of all cancers are caused by occupational
exposure.’
Could those fire fighters have been exposed
to something during the course of their jobs? Is
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that why they had contracted cancer? Or was it a
matter of bad luck.
‘What are the statistics for contracting cancer?’
‘One in three.’
That high! Out of eight men on that bicycle
three had contracted cancer, slightly higher than
Simon’s statistics but not so unusual.
‘There’s money in research, Adam. You should
have finished your degree. Nothing was ever
proven over Alison’s death.’
I felt myself tense. I had wondered how long
it would take Simon to remind me of my failure.
Perhaps that was why I hadn’t wanted to come
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here. I knew it was one of the reasons I’d cut
myself off from my family. Alison’s death had
been an accident I told myself. She had fallen
from that window. Only trouble was I couldn’t
remember a thing about it. The first I could recall
was sitting in a police interview room.
Simon said, ‘You shouldn’t have let it ruin your
career.’
‘I didn’t,’ I replied tersely.
‘You call painting a career?’ Simon said, with
barely disguised contempt.
I stiffened. His tone reminded me of Father’s
taunts to Mother over a hobby that had given
her so much pleasure, and for which she’d had a
talent. As far as my father was concerned art was
futile. Simon clearly was of the same opinion
even though he’d married an art historian.
‘How did you know?’ I asked. I hadn’t told him
or Father.
Suddenly Simon looked ill at ease. ‘Harriet saw
something about you in one of her art
magazines,’ he said, airily. ‘Do you make any
money out of it?’
‘We get by.’
‘We?’
‘I’m married.’
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PAULINE R OWSON 50
Simon arched his eyebrows but I was spared
his cryptic remark by the arrival of our meal.
After the waiter had left us I asked a question
that had been bugging me almost since he had
called me. ‘How did you find me?’
‘Your number was in Father’s book?’ he said a
shade too quickly.
‘It couldn’t have been. Father doesn’t have it.’
‘Then you must have given it to me at some
time,’ Simon dismissed impatiently.
‘Hardly.’
‘Does it matter?’ Simon said in exasperation. I
held his stare, and I could see apprehension.
‘Look, I got my secretary to track you down. She
must have found your number in the telephone
book, or through directory enquiries. Harriet said
the article mentioned you were living on the
coast, in Portsmouth, so it wasn’t that difficult
to run you to earth. I thought you ought to know
about Father even though you and he didn’t hit
it off.’
I let it go. We were ex-directory, so why had he
lied and so obviously? Maybe he didn’t care?
Maybe he thought his younger brother dull and
stupid? But then, I thought, I was being paranoid
and overly suspicious. Jack’s death and the
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subsequent events were making me see hidden
motives where there was none.
I gazed across the restaurant and with a shock
found myself staring straight into the eyes of the
young motorbike rider whom I’d seen on the
seafront yesterday. This time there was no
mistaking it, he was looking right at me and it
wasn’t with affection. I held his intense and
hostile glare as best I could. He didn’t flinch or
glance away. He was dressed in the same red and
black leathers as yesterday, his lean face was
unshaven. I had been right the first time: there
was something familiar about him but it eluded
me. Why was he so interested in me? Why didn’t
he approach me? He must have followed me
here. This couldn’t be a coincidence. Did he have
something to do with Jack’s death? Only one way
to find out.
I scraped back my chair. Simon looked up at
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me in surprise. ‘Gents,’ I said, but the people at
the table in front of us decided to leave at the
same time blocking my path and when it was
clear the young man had gone. I crossed to the
toilet scanning the bar and the restaurant but
there was no sign of him and neither was he
inside the gents.
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‘I must be going,’ I said abruptly on my return.
Perhaps I could catch up with him outside.
Simon shrugged. He seemed to have lost
interest in me, probably because he could see
that I wasn’t going to play his game. He said, ‘I’ll
call you tomorrow to let you know how he is.’
It was my turn to shrug. I stepped outside and
peered down the street. There was no motorbike
and no young man. Damn!
I turned up Chicheley Street towards the river
my mind full of questions. It had stopped raining.
I came out by Waterloo Pier; behind me the lights
glowed on the London Eye. The grinding of the
London traffic mingled with the screeching of
the trains as they shunted across the bridge from
Waterloo to Charing Cross station. I turned left
towards Westminster Bridge with the River
Thames on my right. A boat hooted, someone
laughed and I could hear a flute playing, a busker
by the bridge I guessed.
The Thames made me think of the postcard
Jack had sent me. I pulled it out of my pocket.
The picture was one of the most famous in the
world and one of my favourites. Turner had
captured the warship, Temeraire, as it was being
towed up the Thames to be broken up. She had
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fought so bravely at the Battle of Trafalgar and in
Turner’s picture she looks naked without her
sails, suffering the humiliations of being
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shepherded up the river by a squat tug belching
orange from its thin dark funnel. Had Jack meant
anything by sending me this particular postcard
or was it one he just happened to buy? Until I
cracked that code I wouldn’t know.
I turned my thoughts to the motorbike rider.
Had he broken into Jack’s house? Had Jody Piers’
landlady seen him? Jody hadn’t called me so I
guessed not. I felt a stab of disappointment before
I told myself not to be so stupid. I had met her
once. I knew nothing about her. I was married.
Maybe I should report the motorbike rider to
the police? Maybe I should tell Steve Langton
about Jack’s fears? Questions, questions and I
should be in Portsmouth finding the answers not
here staring over the murky waters of the
Thames towards to the illuminated Houses of
Parliament opposite.
I threw a couple of quid into the busker’s cap,
got a nod of thanks from the man and the lift of
an eye from the dog and headed back home.
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CHAPTER 4
W
hen I arrived home I found that Rosie had
left a message on my answer machine
asking me to call round urgently. I glanced at the
clock. It was too late to visit her now. I would
have to wait until the morning. I wondered if
she’d discovered more about Stella Hardway, the
mysterious woman that Jack was supposed to be
having an affair with. I tried to get her name from
the letters on the postcard but even if I included
all of them and not just the letters that Jack had
underlined, I was still missing a ‘W’.
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As I rode down to Rosie’s the next morning I
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checked my mirrors for any sign of the
mysterious motorbike rider. There was none. I
vowed that next time I wouldn’t let him get
away.
I kicked down the stand and glanced at Rosie’s
neighbour’s house. There was no sign of life
behind the windows. I hesitated over knocking,
then thought what the heck! There was no
answer. I climbed over the small dividing wall
and rang Rosie’s bell.
Her face was tired and drawn as she let me in.
I followed her through to the lounge.
‘I had a telephone call from the hospital
yesterday afternoon,’ she said, without preamble.
‘Jack had cancer.’
I felt as though someone had thrown a bucket
of icy water over me. Simon’s words returned to
me – the odds of contracting cancer were one in
three. There were eight men on that bicycle
photograph and four of them had contracted
cancer. The odds had just increased. But how
many were on the watch? Fourteen? Twelve?
Tears filled her dark eyes. ‘Jack had an
appointment to see the consultant. His secretary
telephoned me to ask why he hadn’t kept it.’
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I wrestled with this news. Why hadn’t Jack told
me? Why hadn’t he told his wife? It could explain
Jack’s last message to me, but not why he thought
he was being followed, or the missing items.
‘What kind of cancer?’ If it was brain cancer
then maybe that had caused Jack to have
delusions.
‘Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. I called our GP
and she said that Jack came to her six months
ago with a lump on his neck. She referred him
to a consultant who did a biopsy, X Ray and CT
scan. Jack paid privately. This must have been
why he was so withdrawn and nervy. He didn’t
want me to know. He didn’t want me to worry.
Oh, the silly man. What he must have gone
through. It makes me so angry that he felt he
couldn’t confide in me.’
The anguish in her eyes tore at my heart.
She said, ‘I think Stella Hardway must be
someone at the hospital.’
‘Did you ask?’
‘No.’
I could see that she didn’t want to, but I could.
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She began to cry. I went swiftly to her and took
her in my arms. I felt a surge of anger with Jack
for shutting her out of an important part of his
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life, as well as betrayed that Jack had chosen not
to confide in me either.
‘Why didn’t he tell me?’ She looked up at me
with her tear-stained face.
I couldn’t answer her, not yet. Maybe one day
soon I might be able to.
Simon had said that occupational exposure
counted for many cancers. Was that the
connection? Had Jack and his colleagues been
exposed to something that could have given them
cancer? I felt a frisson of excitement run through
me. I knew I was on the right track.
‘Any good at ciphers?’ I asked Boudicca, when
I returned home an hour later. She looked up at
me as if to say, ‘You must be joking.’
I called the consultant’s secretary; Rosie had
given me her name, and asked her if she knew
anyone called Stella Hardway. She didn’t. I called
the oncology department and the main
switchboard of the hospital with the same result.
Then I telephoned St Thomas’s. Father was
comfortable but still unconscious.
I played around with the letters that Jack had
underlined ending up with twenty-one separate
words. None of them meant anything to me. I
stared at the paper strewn across the kitchen. Faye
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PAULINE R OWSON 58
would have a fit. Which reminded me…
‘You sound as if you’re in a pub,’ I said when
she answered her mobile.
‘Wine bar actually. We’re with clients.’
‘Stewart with you, is he?’ I wasn’t jealous.
Maybe I should have been. In my mind’s eye he
was slick, sophisticated and good-looking,
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everything I wasn’t.
‘Yes.’ Her voice sounded wary with a small note
of petulance that warned me I’d be skating on
thin ice if I pursed that angle.
‘I won’t keep you, just wanted to check you
were OK.’
‘I’m fine, what about you? All set for the
exhibition? You haven’t been drinking, have you?’
‘You make me sound like an alcoholic,’ I
snapped.
‘There’s no need to be so touchy.’
I took a deep breath. ‘No. I’m fine, everything’s
fine.’
I rang off before she could say anything further.
I felt irritated. I told myself it was because of this
damn puzzle rather than Faye’s accusatory and
derisory tone.
‘Why did Jack put Rosie’s name in inverted
commas?’ I asked Boudicca who was pushing
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her head up against my legs and meowing fit to
bust.
Because it’s her name, stupid!
A name. Of course! The code was a name and
it wasn’t bloody Stella Hardway.
I snatched up a piece of paper: Sid, Ned, Sine,
Des, Denis, Denise, Enid…Did any of these have
a connection with Jack, or with the fire fighters
on Red Watch? Had I ever heard Jack mention
any of them? No.
I wracked my brains. I walked about. I fed
Boudicca. I made a coffee. Still nothing came to
me. I was beginning to feel deflated. Back to
square one.
I flicked on Radio Four. They were talking
about the Man Booker Prize winner. Books. I
froze. The books on Jack’s study floor. The books
I had replaced on the shelf. With a pounding heart
I stared at the letters. God! It was so simple.
GIDEONS. And on Jack’s shelf had been a New
Testament and Psalms. Half an hour later Rosie
was opening the door to me again.
‘Sorry to bother you, Rosie, but I think I
dropped my pen when I was tidying Jack’s study
yesterday. I can’t find it anywhere. Would you
mind if I looked?’
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‘Of course.’
She didn’t seem in the slightest bit suspicious.
I guessed she was too tired and too upset.
I climbed the stairs with a racing heart hoping
she wouldn’t want to follow. She didn’t. I
reached for the small brown book that
contained the New Testament and Psalms and
read the inscription on the first page: ‘Presented
to Jack Bartholomew by The Gideons
International within the British Isles, Date:
December 1969.’
The date didn’t tie up with the one on the
postcard, but I knew it wouldn’t. So, there had
to be a reason why Jack had written 4 July 1994.
Eagerly my fingers flicked through the thin pages
until I found the Daily Readings. I turned to the
4th July, which referred me to the Acts Chapter
14 versus 1–18. Nothing. Holding my breath I
flicked on to the next 4 th July under the Daily
Readings. This referred me to Psalms 10 versus
1-18.
‘Is everything OK, Adam?’ Rosie called up.
‘Yes, fine.’
Psalm 10. I let out a long slow breath Jack had
underlined a passage in verse 7 and in verse 8.
‘Did you find it?’
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‘What?’ I spun round, quickly slipping the
small Bible into my pocket. ‘No. I must have
lost it elsewhere.’ Had she seen me? I didn’t think
so. ‘I might have dropped it in the studio or at
the art gallery.’
I felt bad leaving her but I was itching to look
at Jack’s message. I felt less of a heel when she
said that Sarah was due over shortly.
Instead of returning home I rode down to the
seafront and ordered myself a coffee in the Blue
Oasis Café. Through the window I could see the
Hovercraft leaving a trail of white behind it as it
skirted the tops of the waves on its way to the
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Isle of Wight. Lights were beginning to twinkle
in Ryde across the water.
I eyed the occupants in the café. There was
only an elderly couple in the corner. There was
no sign of my pursuer, the motorbike man.
I took out my small pad usually reserved for
sketching and a pencil from my jacket pocket
and opened the New Testament and Psalms.
With my heart beating a little faster I
transcribed the words Jack had underlined into
my pad.
I looked up but no one was paying me any
attention. I sat back to study what I had written.
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His mouth is full of …deceit and fraud, he murder the
innocent.
Whose mouth was full of deceit? Who had
murdered the innocent? Had something
happened in 1994 that had led to the cause of
death of the innocent? Who were the innocent?
I thought of that photograph pinned on my
studio wall, of Jack who had been diagnosed with
cancer and of the three men with him who had
died of cancer. They were the innocent victims
of something that had happened in 1994,
something that had given them cancer. Jack had
died trying to discover what it was. Jesus! Did I
want to go on with this? Would I end up the same
way as Jack? Is that why the motorbike man was
following me? Waiting to see what I discovered,
ready to make sure I had an accident when I got
too close to the truth?
‘I didn’t have you down as a religious man.’
I started violently and then felt foolish as I saw
Jody Piers, Rosie’s neighbour, standing over me. My
heart skipped a beat. ‘Hello, what brings you here?’
‘What do you think?’ She pointed at her Lycra
jogging pants and trainers, over the top of which
she wore a waterproof jacket. Her hair was
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soaked and plastered to her small head. An
earpiece from her personal CD player dangled
on her narrow chest and she pressed a button to
switch it off.
‘You won’t get very fit in here.’
‘Oh bugger that, I’m glad of the excuse to stop.
Not very dedicated, am I?’ and she laughed.
I liked the sound of it, fresh and slightly wicked.
She seemed genuinely pleased to see me and I
felt flattered.
‘I recognised your motorbike and here I find
you with your nose buried in the good book.’
She sat down heavily on the chair opposite. She
stretched out her legs, which brushed against me.
She seemed in no hurry to move and I was in no
rush to protest. I was surprised to feel a
languorous stirring in my loins before the guilt
kicked in. I cleared my throat.
‘Coffee?’ I asked.
‘Please. I’ll forgo the doughnut though. I’ll get
a stitch running back.’
I pocketed the Gideons New Testament and
Psalms and a few seconds later put the coffee in
front of her.
‘I’m glad I’ve run into you,’ she said. ‘I was
going to call you.’
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‘Your landlady saw something?’ I said,
hopefully.
‘She wasn’t sure. There was a dark blue van
parked outside but it could have been perfectly
innocent.’
‘She didn’t get the make or registration
number?’
She gave me a quizzical look. ‘Why the interest?
Is there something more to this break-in than
you’re telling me?’
She spoke lightly as though teasing me but my
expression must have betrayed my concerns. She
said, ‘I can see there is.’
I hesitated, not sure whether to confide in her.
It would sound fantastic. She’d think me
paranoid, and why should I tell her anything? I
didn’t know her, though clearly she had known
Jack and was on good terms with Rosie. But I
had to tell someone and it wasn’t going to be
Faye. Just as I had never told her about Alison . It
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troubled me that I couldn’t confide in my wife,
but what was beginning to worry me more was
the realisation that I never had been able to or
even wanted to.
I put the postcard on the chrome table in front
of her. ‘What do you make of that?’
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‘It’s a painting by Turner.’ She picked it up
and turned it over. I watched her expression
turn from mild amusement to curiosity. ‘It’s
from your friend and it reads like his last
message.’
‘It was. He posted that the day he died.’
She looked shocked. ‘He knew he was going to
die?’
‘It seems incredible, but yes.’
She turned the postcard over in her slim hands
frowning with concentration as she considered
Jack’s words. Finally she looked up and
announced, ‘It’s a code.’
‘And this is where it has led me.’
I pushed my sketchpad towards her. I could
smell the scent of her body, which mingled with
her sweat. It was a powerful aphrodisiac and again
I felt the stirrings of desire. As if sensing my
interest she peeled off her jacket and I could see
her small breasts straining against the tight Lycra
of her running top.
She said, ‘What does it mean?’
I told her ending with, ‘Jack must have been
trying to find a connection between the cancer
and something that happened in 1994 and my
guess is that it was a fire or a chemical incident.’
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I waited for her to tell me I was barking mad
and provide some other simple explanation that
hadn’t yet crossed my mind. Instead a frown
furrowed her brow, her green eyes were serious
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and her gaze intent.
In the silence I could hear the coffee machine
whirring and gurgling. A radio was playing a
Christmas tune and the door opened and shut
letting in a blast of cold clammy air. The elderly
couple left.
Finally she said, ‘You think he was killed
deliberately in that fire?’
I nodded. ‘But don’t ask me how.’
‘This could be dangerous, Adam.’
I liked the way she said my name.
‘Take it to the police and leave it to them,’ she
continued, firmly.
It was tempting and maybe she was right. I felt
warmed by her concern. At the same time my
stomach churned at the thought of entering a
police station again. ‘I’ll talk to Steve Langton.
He’s a friend of Jack’s and mine; he’s a DI at the
local police station.’
She seemed relieved at my decision. ‘I’m
sure that’s the right thing to do.’ She dashed a
glance at her watch. ‘I must be going. I’ve got
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a project to finish and a deadline looming. I’m
doing a study of the marine life in Portsmouth
harbour.’
Outside the door she hesitated. ‘Will you let
me know what the police say?’
I wanted to ask why. But maybe I already knew
the answer.
‘All right,’ I agreed eagerly; it would give me a
reason to see her again. I ignored the warning
bells that were sounding in my head like Nôtre
Dame’s.
‘You know where I live, number forty-two.
Here’s my telephone number.’ She scribbled it
in my sketchpad. ‘But I might see you next week
at your exhibition.’
I must have looked shocked or horrified.
She laughed and said, ‘I’m based in the
dockyard. I saw the posters outside the art gallery.’
‘Well if you fancy venturing out on a cold
winter’s night and there’s nothing on the
television you’re welcome to come to the private
viewing on Saturday.’
‘Great.’ She plugged in her music. ‘I’ll see you
then.’
Suddenly I was looking forward to the
exhibition. I watched her lean body jog gracefully
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along the promenade towards the fun fair, then
climbed on my bike and headed with trepidation
for the police station.
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CHAPTER 5
F
ifteen years ago it had been a different police
station in a different city but they, like
hospitals, all have that same smell about them of
disinfectant and fear. As soon as I stepped inside
the lobby I could feel the sweat pricking my
brow. As I waited to see Langton I ran my hands
down the sides of my jeans, feeling the space
around me growing ever smaller by the slowly
ticking minutes. Soon I wouldn’t be able to
breathe. Maybe he wasn’t in. Maybe I should
simply turn and leave. But I forced myself to stay
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even as the memories flooded back and I was
once again back in that bleak interview room in
Oxford with the red-faced, heavily perspiring
inspector and his baby-faced sergeant. ‘What did
you do, Adam?’ ‘Are you sure that’s what happened?’
‘You had a row with Alison, didn’t you?’ ‘We have
witnesses…’ ‘I didn’t push her… I didn’t… I didn’t…’
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Then nothing but darkness.
‘Adam, come through.’ Steve’s confident,
friendly voice catapulted me back into the
present.
As the security door behind us closed, it
sounded like the slamming of a prison cell.
I put one foot in front of the other and followed
his purposeful athletic strides up the stairs to the
first floor where I was shown into a modern
office. I let out a breath, thankful that it had not
the slightest similarity to an interview room.
‘Drink?’ Steve offered but I declined.
‘I won’t take up too much of your time,’ I began
but he waved away my concerns.
‘I need a bit of a break and this lot’s not going
anywhere.’ He indicated the pile of paperwork
on his desk. I glanced at it as I sat down, seeing
some rather grisly photographs of a woman
who’d been attacked. They weren’t very pleasant
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and I hastily looked away. The sounds of the
station came to me from beyond Langton’s
closed door: footsteps hurrying, someone
laughing, a telephone constantly ringing. Would
he think me paranoid? I’d soon find out. I told
him about the postcard and code, my last
conversation with Jack, my theories on the break-
in, the missing items, and what I thought Jack
had been investigating. I watched for his reaction
in the glow of the angle poise lamp on his desk.
I needn’t have bothered being a policeman he
simply stared at me impassively.
‘I know it sounds incredible, Steve, but
something must have happened at a fire in 1994.’
‘Lots of people die of cancer,’ Langton said
quietly.
‘I keep telling myself that, but it doesn’t feel
right especially when you put it with everything
else that has happened.’
‘You want me to look into it.’
‘Yes.’
After a moment, he said, ‘I’m up to my eyeballs
in work, Adam. You know what it’s like at
Christmas: more thefts, more fights, more
domestics, more bloody everything and less
coppers to handle it because of flu and colds.’
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‘So you’re not going to do anything.’
‘I’ll talk to the officers who attended the break-
in.’
I could see that was the best I was going to get,
but I wasn’t prepared to give up trying yet. ‘Any
further news on the fire that killed Jack?’
‘No. It was just after four o’clock when it
happened and dark. The old Labour club is
tucked away behind the social security office. It’s
a bit off the beaten track for passers-by.’
‘Perhaps someone working in the social
security office saw something. Have you
questioned them?’
‘No, and we’re not going to. I haven’t got the
manpower, Adam,’ Langton added hastily. ‘We
put a flyer up on the staff notice board asking for
anyone who saw anything to come forward but
so far nothing and the media coverage didn’t
flush them out. It was probably kids.’
‘And if it wasn’t and Jack was the intended
victim?’ I said tersely.
‘That just doesn’t add up. How would the killer
know that Jack would be the first into that
building? Are you suggesting that one of his
colleagues killed him?’
Steve was looking at me as if I should be carted
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off to the nearest lunatic asylum. He was right,
that was unthinkable. I said, ‘Someone could
have gained access to the fire station.’
‘I know death is hard to come to terms with
especially when it is someone close to us. We
often look for someone to blame, but it was one
of the hazards of his job.’
I could see that I wasn’t going to convince him
otherwise. I made one last attempt. ‘And this
code?’
‘I’ll check out the fire reports for 1994,’ he said
wearily.
I’d won an extra concession, but I was going
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to do that anyway, once Red Watch were back on
duty, which was tomorrow.
I spent a restless night mulling over the
message that Jack had left me before rising early
the next morning. I recognised the fire fighter
who answered the door to me from the wake.
He was a tall, gangly man who resembled a giraffe
with his long neck and rather prominent ears.
He introduced himself as Pete Motcombe and
took me upstairs to the kitchen where the fire
fighters were seated around the large table taking
a break before beginning the tasks and exercises
of the day. As I looked at their solemn faces I
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understood what Steve Langton had meant. I felt
ashamed for even thinking that one of them
could have had something to do with Jack’s
death.
‘Is it true that Jack’s house was broken into on
the day of the funeral?’ Motcombe asked.
‘Yes.’
A few expletives rumbled around the table.
‘Was there much taken?’ Motcombe asked.
‘No, but I can’t find Jack’s diary or computer
back-up disks. Would he have left them on the
station?’
‘They weren’t in his locker. I haven’t seen
them.’
‘It should have been me, not him.’
We all turned to stare at the owner of the
anguished voice. He was in his late twenties with
close-cropped hair and startling blue eyes that
were filled with a sadness that tore at my heart.
‘I was riding BA. I should have gone in first.’
Another man spoke, his voice gentle, ‘Ian,
you’re not to blame. You mustn’t torment
yourself with that. It could have been any one of
us.’
‘I shouldn’t have let him do it.’
‘It was his job, Ian. He knew the risks just like
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IN C OLD D AYLIGHT 75
you do, like all of us know it.’
‘But I swapped with him. Jack should have
been pump man not me.’
‘It was Jack who asked you to swap,’ a female
fire fighter I knew was called Sally said gently,
pushing her fingers through her short blonde
hair. ‘You weren’t to know what was going to
happen.’
‘When did you swap with Jack?’ I asked Ian.
Why hadn’t Steve told me about this? Did he
know? Was it important? Something in my gut
told me it was.
‘When he came on duty that morning. It was
Jack …’
He didn’t get any further. The bells went down
and suddenly I was left in the room alone with
Motcombe who explained he was duty man.
‘Ian’s really cut up. Shouldn’t be on duty,’
Motcombe said. ‘I’ve told him to see the doctor
and get a sick note but he insists on being here.
Why did you want to know about him swapping
with Jack?’
I didn’t want to give my real reason. I didn’t
see any need to worry these guys who were
suffering the loss of their colleague. I said, ‘I guess
I’m finding it hard to come to terms with Jack’s
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death, which is why I’m here really.’ I plunged
into the cover story that I’d worked out
overnight. ‘I want to paint something as a tribute
to Jack.’
With surprise I realised that was exactly what I
might do. ‘Jack had three passions in his life: his
family, his sailing and his job. Before I paint I
like to research as much background as I can,
immersing myself either in the period or the
location or often both. I’m not sure what I shall
paint yet, I just let ideas come to me by looking
at everything associated with the subject, tucking
things away in my sub conscious, getting a
glimmer of an idea from an article, a
photograph… I’m looking for some help on fire
service background.’
‘That sounds a great idea. Fire away.’
Motcombe smiled at his pun.
‘I thought I’d take the year 1994. It was when I
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first met Jack.’ Strange but it hadn’t struck me
until then the significance of the date on the
postcard. I couldn’t immediately recall Jack
talking about a dangerous incident in that year,
or even on 4 th July. Of course he might have used
that date solely to draw me to the message in the
New Testament and Psalms. I said, ‘Can you tell
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me how many fire fighters would have been on
the watch then and give me their names? I’d like
to talk to them.’
‘Sorry, can’t help you. I wasn’t on the watch
and there’s no one else left from that time. Or
rather there’s only Brian and he’s convalescing
in Devon.’
I was disappointed. I didn’t really want to worry
Brian with my enquiries.
Motcombe said, ‘Des Brookfield might help you,
though. He’s at headquarters in Southampton.’
I knew that. ‘Perhaps I could see the fire reports
for that year. It would help me get a feel for the
incidents that Jack attended.’
‘They’re kept at head office.’
I should have known. But at least I could kill
two birds with one stone: speak to Brookfield
and see the fire reports. I knew I must be
following a trail that Jack had already trod. Had
he found the report and made notes about it on
his computer? Notes that someone had been very
keen to erase all trace of. Only one more question
to ask, and a delicate one, before heading for
Southampton.
‘Did Jack ever talk about a woman called Stella
Hardway?’
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Motcombe looked surprised. ‘Name doesn’t
ring a bell. Why do you ask?’
‘Rosie heard him talking to her and she
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wondered if anyone knew her address. She
wanted to contact her to tell her about Jack, in
case she hadn’t heard.’
It was waffle but it seemed to satisfy
Motcombe. ‘I can’t recall the name. I’ll ask the
others for you, if you like?’
‘Thanks, but don’t say anything to Rosie. She’s
got enough to cope with.’
I gave him one of my cards.
Thirty minutes later I was at fire service
headquarters, ringing a bell at the deserted
reception desk of the 1950s building that had the
air of an old fashioned library about it. A few
seconds later a woman in her mid fifties with
short grey hair and a round figure appeared. I
asked to see Brookfield.
‘Adam.’ Brookfield was striding across the
parquet floor, a smile on his swarthy face that
didn’t touch his eyes and his arm stiffly
outstretched. I took his hand returning the
pressure, trying not to wince at the grip that was
like iron.
‘What brings you here?’
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He waved me into a seat and I gave him the
same story I’d spun Motcombe. He too was
enthusiastic about the painting. When I
mentioned that I had decided to focus on 1994
he said: ‘I was on the watch then. Perhaps I can
help you.’
If only he could. With a quickening heartbeat,
I said, ‘How many men were there on the watch?’
Brookfield’s dark eyes narrowed as he thought
back down the years. ‘Fourteen usually, but if I
remember correctly we were a couple of men
down that year. We made up the numbers with
different men on secondments from other
stations. I was sub-officer and Stuart Hallington
was leading fireman. He emigrated to New
Zealand. As well as Jack there was Colin
Woodhall, who’s now running his own fire safety
business in Turkey and doing very well for
himself; Dave Caton lives in France; Sam
Frensham has a hotel in the Cotswolds; Brian
Clackton, who’s still on the watch, and Sandy
Ditton who works in Portsmouth. There was
also Vic Rushmere, Scott Burnham, Duggie
Leith and Tony Penfold, they’ve all since died of
cancer.’
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‘Vic Rushmere had cancer?’ He hadn’t been
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in the bicycle photograph and Rosie hadn’t
mentioned him.
‘Yes. Did you know him?’ Brookfield looked
surprised. I had to be more careful about my
reactions.
‘No.’
‘He was the first one to die, if I remember
correctly. Bloody awful disease, cancer. Red
Watch has had its fair share of bad luck.’
That was putting it mildly. If I needed
convincing I was on the right track this was it.
Five men out of twelve was definitely one man
too many according to Simon’s statistics. Even
if I counted in the two secondments, it would
still be a little over the odds.
‘Do you have the addresses of any of them?’
Brookfield shook his head. ‘No, and I doubt if
personnel will give them to you, data protection
and all that. Some of the others on Red Watch
might know or you could put a notice up in the
station.’
That was an idea, using my painting story as a
reason for wanting to talk to them. ‘What about
Sandy Ditton? You mentioned he worked in
Portsmouth.’
‘At the Maritime Museum in the dockyard.’
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I could at least speak to him. ‘Would it be
possible to see the fire reports for 1994?’
‘I expect so but I’d have to get permission from
the chief first.’
‘How long do you think that will take?’ I tried
not to show my disappointment. I had hoped to
look at the records then but I supposed that had
been unrealistic.
‘A couple of days. I’ll see what I can do.’
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‘Do you remember any particularly big fires
during that year, or any unusual or nasty ones?’
‘Can’t say that I recall anything out of the
ordinary, just more of the same that we usually
get: car and bin fires, false alarms, people stuck
in lifts, chip pan fires. No, nothing that big, but
in 1992 we had a major factory fire.’
‘Do you keep a diary?’ I tried not to sound as if
I was clutching at straws but every word
Brookfield uttered sent me into further gloom.
I guessed I had been too optimistic to begin with.
This wasn’t going to be easy.
‘No, and I don’t keep a scrapbook either,
though I know some of the fire fighters do.’
I’d forgotten about that. Did Jack have a
scrapbook? If he did then had that gone missing
too?
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Brookfield said, ‘I’ve never been one for
looking back. Always ahead that’s the only way.
Sandy always kept a diary and he’s got a mind
like an elephant. Never forgets dates or events.’
At last someone who might remember, or who
at least had kept a record. I brightened up at that.
Brookfield looked pointedly at his watch. ‘I’ve
got a meeting. Leave it with me, Adam, and I’ll
see what I can do about those fire reports. How
can I get hold of you?’
Once again a card came out and I handed it to
Brookfield.
I telephoned the Maritime Museum and asked
to speak to Sandy Ditton only to be told he wasn’t
working until Monday afternoon. Directory
enquiries said he was ex directory so I had no
choice but to wait until then. That left me with
Sam Frensham in the Cotswolds as the next
nearest former Red Watch fire fighter to talk to.
I called Rosie.
Her first words were, ‘Did you find out
anything at the station?’
‘Jack wasn’t having an affair. He must have
been talking to someone at the hospital.’
‘Yes, that must have been it.’ I heard the relief
in her voice.
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I asked her if Jack had kept a scrapbook. She
said he hadn’t. ‘I want to get in touch with some
of Jack’s old colleagues. Do you know
whereabouts in the Cotswolds Sam’s hotel is?’
‘Just outside Stow on the Wold. I can’t
remember what it’s called though. It’s ages since
Jack and I went there. Sorry.’
‘Don’t worry. I can look it up. What about
Sandy Ditton’s address?’
‘No. The only one I’ve kept in touch with from
those days is Carol Rushmere and that’s because
she works as a part time admin officer at the
school where I teach.’
At last, a stroke of luck. ‘Can you tell me where
she lives?’
‘Why this interest, Adam?’
‘It’s just an idea I have, about doing a painting
for Jack. I’d like to talk to Jack’s old colleagues.’
‘Oh, Adam.’ Her voice broke and I felt a heel.
Now I was committed to it, but I didn’t mind. It
was a good idea.
Rosie gave me Carol Rushmere’s address. I
glanced at my watch. It was just after one o’clock.
Rosie had said Carol worked part time. There
was a chance she’d be in and I was going to take
it.
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CHAPTER 6
C
arol Rushmere was a tall, big-boned
woman in her late fifties with extra weight
around her midriff and hips. She had plump
arms, a round face and neatly coiffured bottle
blonde hair that seemed stuck in a 1960s time
warp. Her wide blue eyes smiled cautiously at
me as she offered me tea.
I accepted out of politeness and followed her
through the narrow hallway into a small, modern
kitchen that faced on to a crazy paved back yard
hardly big enough to house the garden shed and
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washing line. It overlooked another row of small
houses built in the 1970s.
‘So you’re a friend of Jack Bartholomew’s. I
was sorry to learn of his death. Poor Rosie.’ She
switched on the kettle and retrieved two mugs
from a wooden mug stand. ‘I’m not sure how I
can help you with any painting, Mr Greene.’
‘Jack was a very good friend to me, and I feel I
need to paint something as a tribute to him.’
‘I see,’ she said, obviously not seeing, but
prepared to humour me. ‘Biscuit?’
‘No thanks.’ I took the mug of tea and followed
her swaying hips through to the open plan lounge
that ran the length of the house, and faced a busy
road junction. They were building new houses
in the grounds of the old psychiatric hospital
opposite and the headlights from the heavy
lorries transporting earth swept the room as they
swung right, heading out of the town on to the
dual carriageway. To the left of the large, picture
window stood a decorated artificial Christmas
tree with blinking coloured lights and a handful
of wrapped presents underneath.
‘I didn’t know Jack that well,’ she said. ‘He was
fairly new on the watch when Vic died.’
She took the chair to the right of me across the
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fireplace where a small electric fire glowed
behind a painted black surface with artificial
coals. Christmas cards hung suspended above the
mantelpiece on a piece of string that stretched
from the corner of the room by the window to a
tall glass fronted wall cabinet.
‘When did your husband die, Mrs Rushmere?’
I asked as gently as I could.
‘May 24, 1996. He was only forty-six.’
The same age as Jack. There was silence for
several moments, long enough for the brass
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carriage clock on the mantelpiece to become
audible. I followed her gaze to the silver framed
photograph beside the clock where I saw a man
with a sharp jutting face, all angles and bones,
but with a wide smile that softened it and eyes
that sparkled.
‘He had cancer, I believe.’ I sipped my tea.
‘Yes, skin cancer. It spread very rapidly, went
to his liver and then his lungs.’
I could see by her expression that her mind
had travelled back to the gruelling days when she
had nursed him. Her hands were constantly on
the move, touching her hair, stroking the side of
her face or rubbing gently at her nose. I wasn’t
quite sure how to ask further questions about
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her husband’s illness but as it was I didn’t have
to.
‘It started with a blister, here.’ She indicated
the rear of her right ear lobe. ‘It grew and turned
into a large mole and that’s when Vic first went
to the doctor. After that the cancer seemed to
spread very rapidly. He had chemotherapy and
radiotherapy but it made no difference. I think
it had already reached his liver by the time he
was diagnosed.’
‘When was that?’
‘October 1995.’
Again that silence. I tried to think of how to
phrase my next question without alerting her as
to the real purpose of my visit. After a moment I
said, ‘Did he ever talk about any fires that he went
to that were particularly dangerous, or he was
concerned about afterwards?’
‘A few: houses with Calor gas fires in them that
exploded, much like it did with Jack, garage fires
where there were oxyacetylene tanks, companies
where chemicals were kept.’
‘When was that?’ My hopes rose only to be
dashed by her next words.
‘They happened all the time. I used to wave
him off to work often wondering if it would be
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the last time I’d see him. I never expected him
to die of cancer.’
‘Did he keep a diary?’
‘No. But he kept a scrapbook.’
Great! ‘Have you still got it. I’d like to see it if
I may. It would give me some background
information and ideas.’
‘Of course, if I can find where I put it.’
‘You wouldn’t have thrown it away?’ I said
alarmed.
‘It’s around somewhere. I’ll look it out for you
over the weekend and give you a call if you like.’
I liked, but would have wished for her to do it
sooner. I once again gave out my card. At this
rate I’d have to have a new print run.
On the doorstep I paused. ‘Did your husband
ever say anything to you about what he thought
caused the cancer?’
‘Too much sun when he were a kiddie lying
on the beach all day probably.’ She shrugged.
‘Who knows what sets these things off?’
Who indeed I thought, climbing on my bike.
My conversation with Carol Rushmere had
opened up another source of information,
however, and one I was cross with myself for
not thinking of sooner.
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The librarian told me that I had to book to use
the microfiche but after a little gentle persuasion,
when I could see that one had just become
vacant, she led me to it and soon I was trawling
back through the local newspaper for fire reports
or accidents in 1994. I started with 4 th July. My
excitement was short-lived. There was no fire
reported on that day. That didn’t mean to say
there hadn’t been one, but if there had then it
couldn’t have been very significant.
I began to trawl through the rest of that month
and soon realised that it was a mammoth task,
since the local newspaper reported everything
from a chip pan fire to a spate of arson attacks on
parked cars. And the reports didn’t usually
mention which watch had attended the incident.
I jotted down a couple of major fires, one in
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April 1994 in a hotel just off the seafront, that
had been before I had met Jack, and the other in
a garage behind Elm Grove in November. I knew
Red Watch had attended them because
Brookfield was quoted as sub-officer. It was
pointless though; I was simply going through the
motions. It couldn’t be those.
I wracked my brains trying to recall any fires
in 1994, and particularly in July, which could
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have been responsible for causing cancer. Jack
and I had spent every spare day out sailing. I
remembered it as being a very hot month, and
the newspaper reports I’d just read had
confirmed it: continuous sun, soaring
temperatures and air pollution warnings.
I gave it up. It was like searching for a pearl on
the pebbled beach. I would have to wait for the
incident reports, or perhaps Vic Rushmere’s
scrapbook might give me a lead.
I returned home feeling deflated. My mobile
rang as I stepped inside the house. It was Simon,
at last.
‘You’d better come. They don’t think he’s got
long.’
My heart gave a jolt. This was the end.
I scribbled a note to Faye saying I had to go
out and wasn’t sure when I would be back, fed
Boudicca and once again left for London.
‘You’re too late. He died half an hour ago.’ Simon
greeted me in the same sterile waiting room as
before. With those sharp words and disdainful
look I saw what I had missed the first time: how
like Father he had become.
Slowly his words sunk in. He was dead. The
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slate was wiped clean. I didn’t have to pretend
or apologise anymore.
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‘Do you want to see him?’ Simon continued.
Did I? There had been so many times in my
life when I had fervently wished my father dead,
but now that he actually was it didn’t seem real.
I couldn’t quite believe it. I didn’t know what to
feel and I wouldn’t until I saw him.
Simon said he’d wait for me outside the
hospital. I pulled aside the curtains of the
intensive care bed and stared at the pallid form.
All the personality had been stripped from that
gaunt, grey face. I told myself that the feelings
of shame at having failed him, and the sense of
inadequacy that had accompanied me all my
thirty-six years, were finally over, even though I
knew that you couldn’t shake off years of
conditioning in a matter of seconds. It would take
more than my father’s death to erase from my
memory the look in his eyes when he’d come to
the police station after Alison’s death. I’d seen
the doubt and the disgust. And I’d seen the
contempt when he’d visited me in the clinic.
I tried to tell myself that there had been happier
memories such as when he’d taken me to watch
England play cricket against the Australians at
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the Oval. I couldn’t think of many more. He had
fed and clothed me though and paid for my
education. I couldn’t love him but I could feel
sorry for how things had worked out. I hadn’t
wanted it this way. I caught up with Simon
outside the hospital.
‘Made your peace?’ Simon said sarcastically,
drawing on a cigarette.
I didn’t answer him. My mind was trying to
grapple with the surprising sensation that, despite
myself, I was feeling sorrow. We began walking
towards the car park.
‘We’ll need to sort out funeral arrangements,’
Simon went on, as I remained silent. ‘Harriet
can do that. She can contact Father’s old
colleagues and put an announcement in The
Times and The Daily Telegraph, though no doubt
the newspapers will run an obituary.’
Yes, our father had been a successful and
famous a chemist. I had tried to follow in his
footsteps, but my degree in Physical Science had
come to a premature and abrupt end with
Alison’s death.
I brought my attention back to Simon who was
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speaking. ‘We’ll need to find the will. Father kept
a copy in his study. We could check that out now.’
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‘You keep saying “we” Simon.’
‘He was your father too. You can hardly blame
him for what happened to you.’
Can’t I? The continuous pressure to achieve,
the measurement of my every achievement
against my brother’s and the constant carping
that I hadn’t reached the required standard. But
none of that mattered now. What a waste of the
years.
Simon zapped open the door of his Range
Rover and paused before climbing in. ‘It would
have to happen now, right when I’m in the
middle of negotiations with an American
syndicate for a big finance package. I can’t afford
to hang around up here, Adam. Timing is critical.
It would help if you at least did something.’
I scrutinised him. He appeared to be telling
the truth. With some reluctance, pulling on my
gloves and helmet I said abruptly, ‘OK. I’ll meet
you at the house.’
I arrived outside Father’s house in Belgravia
before Simon and managed to squeeze the bike
in a small space not far from it. I knew he’d have
trouble parking. I gave the engine a quick rev
before switching it off, then kicked down the
stand.
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As the London traffic screeched around me I
looked up at the four-storey house. It seemed
dirtier and shabbier than I remembered. The
whitened stone façade that faced the street on
ground level had grown grubby with the London
pollution and badly needed painting. The
casement windows needed replacing, and paint
was flaking off the black iron railings that formed
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a small forecourt and which also surrounded the
balcony giving off from the first floor long sash
windows.
I locked my helmet in the box on the bike. I
had agreed nothing with Simon, though Simon
probably thought I had by coming back here. I
didn’t want to go inside the house but I knew I
had to. Other memories would assail me: my
mother’s strained face and lean body, her haunted
sad eyes. The smell of her soft perfume and her
gentle smile were always overshadowed by those
last few years of her life and my father’s lack of
understanding and intolerance towards illness. I
felt panic fingering my throat but before it could
get a hold Simon was striding towards me.
The house smelt of age and neglect. Simon
climbed the stairs muttering something about a
drink. I headed for the kitchen. It hadn’t changed:
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the cracked enamel sink, the ancient built-in oak
cabinets with frosted glass, the pine table in the
centre of the room with four chairs around it.
There was crockery on the drainer under a red
and white striped tea towel.
I crossed to the french windows and gazed out
on to a narrow strip of garden but it was too dark
to see anything save the tall, wavering trees in
the ill-tempered wind.
‘Whisky?’ Simon returned, waving a half full
bottle.
‘No thanks.’
‘Well here’s to the old man.’ Simon tossed the
drink back in one go and poured himself another.
Picking up the almost full bottle he said, ‘Might
as well get this over with.’
Father’s study smelt of stale tobacco and dust.
The heavy oak furniture, shelves of dusty books,
brown edged papers and dark velvet curtains all
served to make me feel claustrophobic. I could
hear my father’s brittle voice. ‘I’m disappointed in
you, Adam. To think a son of mine should suffer a mental
breakdown. We’ve certainly never had anything like this
in my family’.
Lawrence Greene would make no allowance
for the loss of my mother when I was nine, the
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pressure he had piled on me, and Alison’s death.
Counselling and psychotherapy were for wimps.
In that battered grey metal filing cabinet in the
far right-hand corner by the window were my
father’s private papers including the reports on
my progress from the psychiatrist. I needed to
retrieve them but didn’t want to do so in front
of Simon.
Simon was sitting at father’s desk going
through his drawers. ‘Ah here it is. I thought he
might have given it to the solicitor.’ Simon
extracted a document from a slim manila
envelope.
I didn’t need to be a mind reader to know what
Father’s will contained; I could see it in Simon’s
expression.
‘It’s all right,’ I said, pre-empting him. ‘You
don’t have to tell me. He’s left me nothing.’
‘I’m sorry, Adam.’
‘I bet, you are,’ I threw at him. ‘Do I even need
to ask who inherits?’
Simon shrugged.
‘Fine. Good bye, Simon.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Home, of course.’
‘Aren’t you going to stay and –’
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‘Help you? You’ve got to be joking.’
‘There’s no need to be so bitter.’
‘I’m not.’ And I meant it. I didn’t want Father’s
money, but neither did I see any need to hang
around and help Simon. Besides I had other
more important things to do. I had to find out
about this fire in 1994. I was pinning my hopes
on Vic Rushmere’s scrapbooks and those fire
reports, yet I wondered if there was more I could
do.
‘Let me know when the funeral is,’ I tossed
over my shoulder as I left.
Before I knew it I was riding through the traffic
lights at Hindhead. It was then I noticed the
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motorbike behind me. It kept a steady distance,
but I could tell it was following me. I slowed
and it slowed. I squinted in my mirrors to get a
better look at it but it was dark and raining. Was
it the same motorbike I’d seen along the
promenade? Was it the young man I’d seen in
the restaurant when I was with Simon?
I felt my pulse begin to race. What to do now?
I could hardly turn round and ride back towards
him. Perhaps if I pulled in he would overtake
me. Perhaps he would stop. There was nowhere
to pull over here but I knew that not far ahead
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the road became a dual carriageway and just as it
did there was a derelict building on the left that
had once been a roadside café. I could pull in
there and see what he did. If it was the unshaven
young man then it was about time he told me
why he was stalking me.
There it was, just ahead, not far now. I sped
up, my eyes on that derelict building looking for
somewhere to pull in. Suddenly a car shot out
of nowhere. Jesus! I swung the bike to the right
to avoid colliding with it, across the other side
of the road, fighting to keep it upright, my heart
slamming against my ribs fit to burst. A van was
coming towards me, lights blazing horn blaring.
I swerved back to my left on to the correct side
of the road with inches to spare as the van roared
past. With my breath coming in gasps, and my
head pounding, I eased the machine over in front
of the derelict café and switched off the engine.
I wrenched off my helmet and let the rain lash
against my face. I took in gulps of air and waited
for my heart rate to settle down. Eventually I
became conscious of the cars racing past me. I
spun round, there was no one else parked and
the motorbike had vanished.
When I arrived home Faye was in the lounge.
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I went straight to the kitchen and poured myself
a large glass of whisky half of which I downed in
one go. Faye joined me and looked pointedly at
the glass. I thought if she so much as utters one
word about my drinking so help me I’ll throw
the bloody glass at her. She opened her mouth
to speak but must have seen the warning in my
expression because she closed it again and moved
across to the cooker.
‘I can put a pizza in the oven if you’re hungry.
I ate lunchtime at a client meeting.’
Food was the last thing on my mind. I could
have been killed. I very nearly was. Where the
hell had that Mercedes come from? It must have
shot out of a side road. Had it been waiting there
for me? But no, that was ridiculous.
‘Did you hear me, Adam?’
‘I’m not hungry,’ I muttered, tossing back the
rest of the whisky, feeling the warmth slide down
my throat and wrap itself around my heart. It
stilled my nerves but not my racing mind. Now
I was beginning to settle down I wanted to think
through the incident rationally and calmly. First
though I had a job to do. I guessed it wasn’t going
to be easy but I couldn’t put it off any longer. I
had to tell Faye about my father. If I didn’t then
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Faye might find out from Simon. How could I
guarantee that she wouldn’t be here when he or
Harriet called about the arrangements for the
funeral?
I poured myself another whisky. Faye tutted. I
said, ‘ Before you say anything about this,’ I
waved the glass at her, ‘there’s something you
should know.’ The words froze in my throat. It
wasn’t that I was so upset that I couldn’t speak; I
just didn’t know how to begin to tell her
something that I should have spoken about ten
years ago, when we first met.
My silence only served to increase her
agitation. ‘Something’s gone wrong with the
exhibition?’ I heard the alarm in her voice.
‘It’s not the exhibition. I’ve just returned from
London…’
‘But you never go to London, you hate it there.’
She was looking at me now with a mixture of
trepidation and anger.
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‘I had no choice. My father’s dead.’
‘You haven’t got a father.’
‘I have. And a brother, called Simon. My father
passed away this afternoon.’
For once I had rendered her speechless. I tossed
back the whisky. ‘I didn’t tell you because I’ve
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been estranged from my family for fifteen years.’
I held my breath waiting for her to ask why.
There was no way I was going to tell her about
Alison or my breakdown. Eventually, she would
find out. Husbands shouldn’t have secrets from
their wives, least not like mine. It wasn’t right
not if you really loved one another…
She said, ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?
Why lie to me?’
‘I didn’t mean to lie. I just didn’t want to speak
about it. I had cut myself off from them.’
‘What else haven’t you told me?’
Quite a lot, I thought, but didn’t say. She hadn’t
offered her condolences but I didn’t hold that
against her. My surprising news had probably
driven it from her mind, or at least that’s what I
told myself.
‘My father has left everything to Simon.’ I
could see she was grappling with this new
information. ‘I shall attend the funeral and that
will be it.’
‘How much has he left?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Well of course it does. You’re his son.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Where in London did he live?’
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‘Belgravia.’
‘Those houses are worth a fortune!’
‘It’s not in a very good state of repair.’
‘You can’t let your brother take everything,
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that’s not fair. You should have told me about
your family before. You’ve as much right to your
father’s money as he has. Just think what we
could do with it.’
I could feel my anger rising. ‘I don’t want to
talk about it.’
‘You’re going to have to, Adam. With that kind
of money we could buy a decent apartment in
London.’
‘I don’t want an apartment in London.’
‘You said that after this exhibition you’d
consider it. Here’s a golden opportunity and
you’re going to let it go past,’ she said crossly.
‘I am not living in London.’ I shouted.
‘And that’s it! What about me? Don’t I get a
say in this? I’m the one who has to work there
and travel back and forth. You can paint
anywhere. ’
‘That’s just it, Faye, I can’t. I can’t even paint
here.’ My anger subsided as quickly as it had
risen. It was only then that I knew how much I
hated this house, and how I loathed being even
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five miles away from the sea. Before I had met
Faye I had lived opposite it, in a studio apartment
at Old Portsmouth.
‘So what are all those images of the Festival of
the Sea that we’re exhibiting? Rubbish?’
‘They’re mediocre.’ I moved away from her. I
needed space. I tried one more time to make her
understand. ‘I need to be near the sea, Faye. I
need to breathe it, smell it, taste it. I need to see
and feel it in all its moods, all its seasons.’ She
was staring at me as if I’d gone mad. ‘This house
is wrong.’
‘Then move.’
‘Not to London.’
‘We can have a place in London and an
apartment here but we can’t do that without your
father’s inheritance. Have you any idea of house
prices these days? You haven’t exactly been
earning a lot in the last couple of years.’
‘Jesus, Faye! You really know how to hit a man
when he’s down, don’t you?’
‘Well it has to be said, Adam. My job’s kept us
living here and allowed you to paint…’
She nearly said it but snapped her mouth shut
before she could. I heard her unspoken words
‘instead of getting a proper job’. I turned away.
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‘What’s happened to you, Adam? You’ve
become so selfish?’
I didn’t answer. There wasn’t much I could
say to that. I went to the studio. I picked up Jack’s
postcard. Turner had been a genius: creative,
imaginative, and innovative. Everything I aspired
to. Was Turner’s ‘The Fighting Temeraire’ trying
to tell me something? She was a warship. This
was her last journey, is that why Jack had chosen
it? Had he had known that this would be his final
quest?
I studied the painting: the brilliant sunset
reflected in the water at the end of the day. I
thought of Jack, of Alison and my father, their
days had ended. I thought of my near miss on
the way home from London. I knew it had been
no accident. Whoever had been driving that
Mercedes had intended killing me. It had almost
been the end of my days too. He hadn’t
succeeded but I had no doubts that whoever it
was would try again.
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CHAPTER 7
S
aturday night and I stared at my paintings in
the ancient stone warehouse that had been
converted to an art gallery and despised every
single one of them, wondering if I was the only
person who saw their faults. How could I not
when the image of ‘The Fighting Temeraire ’
burned in my brain?
The room was crowded and hot. I nodded at
people and even spoke to some but I was on
automatic pilot. When I wasn’t thinking about
Jack, and that Mercedes, I was thinking about
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my father’s funeral. I was cursing myself for
walking out on Simon when I had. I should have
extricated my files from that cabinet. I could have
got Simon out of the study long enough to do
so. Now I would have to wait until the funeral.
By which time he might have gone through the
file. I didn’t relish the fact of him knowing all
about my sessions with the psychiatrist. His
superior attitude would be more than I could
stomach.
I gazed around the room with a glass of wine
in my hand. Everyone seemed to be having a
good time and quite a few people had
congratulated me. I was disappointed that Jody
hadn’t shown up but there was time yet.
My eyes alighted on Faye. She was elegantly
dressed in a short midnight blue dress; her
straight blonde hair was glowing after the three
hours she’d spent in the hairdressers that
morning and her silver jewellery showed off her
fair flawless skin to perfection. She caught my
eye, raised her glass and smiled at me. No one
would have guessed that we had spent the day in
a sullen silence, only communicating when we
had to.
Her gesture reminded me of my first exhibition
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in 1996. I had met Faye through the marketing
agency the art gallery had engaged to help
promote themselves and promising artists. My
paintings had formed only part of the exhibition,
but it was mine that Faye had chosen to promote
through magazine reviews and articles. She said
that my dark, lean looks would photograph well.
The brooding young artist was how she had
positioned me. I was dark, yes, and lean but I
was silent because I was shy, totally
uncomfortable with crowds. I couldn’t tell her
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then that I had suffered a complete breakdown
because I sensed she would run a mile and I
needed her. Not for her ability to promote me
but because I had fed off her self-confidence. I
had gorged myself on her strength. She boosted
my ego and it had needed a lot of boosting. I had
felt that with Jack’s friendship and Faye’s love I
could finally close the door on my past. Stupid.
I smiled back at Faye; it was an effort. I wasn’t
as good an actor as she was. She was talking to
the tubby little Lord Mayor, exuding self-
confidence and bonhomie. She’d already
telephoned one of her lawyer friends in London
to ask how we stood about contesting the will. If
there was a way then I had every confidence that
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Faye would find it, but I didn’t want a penny of
father’s money. I also didn’t want her attending
the funeral, but I couldn’t see how I could keep
her away from it.
‘Wonderful exhibition, Adam.’ A voice broke
through my thoughts and I found Nigel Steep,
the manager of the commercial port, beside me.
He was a rotund man, immaculately turned out
in navy blazer and khaki-coloured slacks with a
crease in them that made your eyes water.
‘I’m glad you like them.’
‘We’re going to buy a couple to hang in our
reception.’
I laughed. ‘I would have thought you’d got
enough by me already.’ I’d previously been
commissioned to paint the scenes from the
bustling port.
‘Never can have too much of a good thing,’ he
chuckled. ‘It’s an investment.’
‘Then you’d better get in quick before Faye’s
friend from London snaps them up,’ I said,
tossing my head in the direction of Faye and a
tall, snakelike man dressed from head to toe in
black relieved only by a yellow spotted bow tie. I
pointed Nigel in the direction of Martin, the
gallery manager, who was conversing with the
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waiters and he bustled off to speak to him.
I began to circulate, nodding at this person,
making the occasional remark to another but it
was agony for me. Faye was giving me the evil
eye, though, so I had better do my best.
The door opened. I hoped it would be Jody
but it was a slight man with limp brown hair.
He was flanked by two burly men in smart suits.
His eyes scanned the room but Faye, who has an
inbuilt antenna when it comes to spotting VIPs,
was beside him in a flash with her outstretched
hand. The Lord Mayor had been hastily dumped
on a woman with a hairstyle that reminded me
of Margaret Thatcher, and which appeared to be
rigidly held in place with enough hair spray to
cause a hole in the ozone layer. Faye glanced over
her shoulder and beckoned to me and reluctantly,
like a recalcitrant schoolboy, I sidled across the
room.
‘Darling, this is the Right Honourable William
Bransbury, Minister for the Environment,
Energy and Waste,’ Faye introduced brightly. I
knew who he was.
‘Thank you for coming,’ I said dutifully,
surprised to find his handshake rather weak.
‘Not at all. I’m very pleased to be invited. It’s
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good to support local talent and I hear you have
quite a reputation as a marine artist.’
His voice was rather high and nasal, and he
looked nervous as his hazel eyes flickered around
the room. Maybe he didn’t like these events, a
considerable handicap for a politician, I thought.
I had expected someone more self-assured.
Perhaps television made them appear like that.
‘Would you like a drink, Minister?’ Faye
beckoned one of the waitresses.
Bransbury took the glass of white wine. ‘How
about showing me round?’
‘Of course.’ I was somewhat surprised, but
Faye seemed pleased.
I found myself with a small but growing
entourage, as I explained the paintings that had
commemorated the 200 th anniversary of the
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Battle of Trafalgar: the private yachts lining the
pontoon at Gunwharf Quays with hundreds of
coloured flags flying from the halyards; the
elegance and majesty of the tall ships, the
working boats and warships from the Royal Navy
and from around the world, and the little private
leisure craft bobbing on the azure blue of the
Solent amidst the Isle of Wight ferry and the
hovercraft. Suddenly into my mind once more
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came the image of Turner’s painting of the
Temeraire. She had been active at the Battle of
Trafalgar. Was that why Jack had chosen to send
me that particular postcard? Was there some
connection with my exhibition? Had the fire
been in an art gallery or at an exhibition? Then
it clicked. Nelson’s flagship, HMS Victory, was
here, in the Historic Dockyard. The fire that Jack
was referring to must have been in the dockyard.
I almost cried out with excitement. I was right,
damn it. I had to be. I wanted to rush away and
check. I could barely contain my impatience.
Bransbury said, ‘What are you working on at
present?’
With an effort I dragged my mind back to the
politician. ‘I’m thinking of painting something
as a tribute to a close friend of mine, Jack
Bartholomew. He was a fire fighter. He was killed
in an arson attack.’
‘I read about it in the newspapers. Poor man,
quite tragic.’
Who could tell me about a fire in the dockyard?
My eyes shifted away from Bransbury towards
the door, standing just inside it was Jody. My
heart lurched and all thoughts of escaping
vanished from my mind. I glanced around
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guiltily in case Faye had witnessed my
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transformation but she was busy talking to her
London friend with the bow tie. Jody spotted
me, and the way her face lit up sent a rush of
blood through my body and filled me with a
desire that I hadn’t experienced since Alison.
Jody was making a beeline for me. Now all I had
to do was ditch the politician.
‘Hi.’
‘Hello,’ I smiled back at her. She was dressed
in brown casual trousers and a tight fitting green
cashmere cardigan setting off the colour of her
eyes, which were smiling into mine with a hint
of mischief that made my heart race. Around her
smooth, slender neck was a bronze medallion
necklace and she wore small amber droplet
earrings. Her chestnut hair was spiky, she wore
a hint of lipstick, and a trace of mascara
accentuated her almond-shaped eyes. I cleared
my throat, and remembering my manners
introduced her to the politician.
‘I know the Minister,’ Jody replied rather
tersely. ‘And his stance over the proposed
development of Langstone Harbour.’
Bransbury looked uncomfortable, but Faye
came to his rescue.
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‘You’ve hogged the Minister long enough,
darling,’ she said laughing whilst glaring at me.
Then her eyes swivelled to Jody. I saw a slight
narrowing of her pupils and a minute rise of her
finely plucked eyebrows. If Jody noticed it she
didn’t let on; she was looking at Faye with
undisguised interest.
I introduced my wife to Jody, and, after a rather
frosty ‘hello,’ Faye turned her back on her, and
swept Bransbury away.
‘I’m sorry if Faye was a little hostile,’ I began
but Jody smiled.
‘Was she? I didn’t come here to see her.’
‘What is the Minister’s stance on the harbour?’
‘He’s for development. I’m against it like a
good many people, but money talks
unfortunately. Still nothing’s settled yet and the
environmental lobby are very strong. Anyway, I
haven’t come here to talk about that or him. Are
you going to give me the guided tour?’
‘Love to, but I warn you I’ve just bored the
pants off the Minister.’
‘From what I can see they look fantastic. The
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paintings, that is, and not the Minister’s pants.’
This time I found the tour a pleasure rather
than a chore. I liked the sensation of being close
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to her. I liked the way she moved: slowly, casually,
languorously like a contented cat. I felt some of
my old enthusiasm about my paintings
returning, which made me more talkative than
usual and hotter. Or was that just the wine and
the fact of being so close to her? The rest of the
people in the room seemed to fade away.
‘Did you go to the police about Jack’s death?’
she asked when we had finished and were
standing alone. More people had come in and
the room was squeezed tight with bodies. I was
surprised to realise it didn’t bother me in the
least.
‘Yes, for all the good it did me.’
‘They didn’t believe you?’
‘Steve went through the motions, said he’d
look into the fire reports, but I’m not holding
my breath.’
‘So what now?’
‘I check it out and I think I might have some
idea of where that fire was…’ I froze.
Not six feet from me stood the young
motorbike rider. His eyes were boring into me.
It might have been the quality of his gaze that
clinched it for me because something connected
in my brain and recognition finally dawned. How
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could I not have seen it before? I must have been
blind and stupid. He’d only been six then, but I
knew without any doubt that he was Ben
Lydeway, Alison’s brother.
It was as if everyone else had faded away, and
only Ben and I were in the room. I knew what
he had come for: revenge for his sister’s death.
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He blamed me for it. I should go and talk to him,
but I couldn’t move.
Then I saw him turn towards my painting of
the international yachts moored up at Gunwharf
Quays. His hand swept up and only then did I
see he was holding a jar of something. There was
a scream and then several screams, as he splashed
some liquid from the jar on to my canvas and
then on to another beside it. I felt as though
someone had cemented my feet to the ground.
People were scattering like startled starlings.
They were shouting, rushing about. I registered
a commotion out of the corner of my eye beside
the door. I watched painting after painting being
splattered with paint, and still couldn’t move.
Then two large men grabbed him, the jar fell to
the floor and his body immediately went limp.
But his head was erect and his eyes never left
me.
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He was led away without a struggle but even
then he swivelled his head and gave me one last
look. I guessed the whole episode could only
have taken a matter of seconds but it seemed to
have lasted for hours. My legs felt weak, my
stomach was churning, my palms sweating and
my heart was beating so fast that I could hardly
breathe. People were beginning to crowd in on
me, their mouths opening and shutting; their
expressions concerned, but I heard nothing.
Then Jody’s voice penetrated my senses. ‘Fresh
air is what you need.’
She led me through the kitchens and out of
the fire exit at the back of the building where I
sank down on a crate. Jody disappeared to fetch
me a drink of water.
‘Where’s Faye?’ I asked when she returned with
a plastic beaker. I drank the icy cold water in one
long draught.
‘She’s dealing with the press and the Minister.
Who is that young man?’
‘I don’t know.’
Would I never be able to speak about Alison? I
knew her death had been an accident but the fact
that I couldn’t remember where I was and what
I had been doing at the time made me question
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myself. It was that uncertainty, the trauma of the
incident, and the shame I felt over my breakdown
that always kept me silent. The post mortem had
found no bruises on her arms or upper body.
Alison had been stuffed full of cocaine. They had
tested me too, of course. I was clean. Drugs had
never been my scene; I couldn’t afford to lose
control. Accidental death had been the verdict
of the inquest but I had felt responsible. I still
felt responsible. My row with her had led to her
death whichever way I looked at it.
Would the police arrest Ben? Perhaps that was
why he had vandalised my paintings. Did he want
the police to re-open the investigation?
Jody’s voice broke through my thoughts. ‘He’s
probably an environmental protester. He knew
the Minister would be here and thought he’d
get himself in the newspapers.’
‘Yes, that’s probably it.’ I pulled myself up. ‘I’m
sorry this had to happen tonight.’
‘I don’t think you should be the one
apologising.’
Faye looked up as we walked back inside. I saw
her frown before she sailed across to me with a
tight smile on her pretty face. ‘There you are,
Adam.’
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Jody said, ‘I think I’d better go.’
‘I need to talk to Martin,’ I said, rather abruptly.
I left Faye to fend off guests and crossed to the
despoiled images. There were three in total. Ben
had splashed dark red paint across each of them.
I snatched my head away. It was the colour of
blood. I spent some time with Martin but can’t
recall what was said. My mind was many years
away.
‘Will you be able to salvage the paintings?’ Faye
asked, as a taxi whisked us out of the city home.
‘Martin seems to think so.’ I didn’t really care.
I knew that I wouldn’t be able to touch them,
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not with that colour splattered all over them.
‘Do you know who he was? ’ Faye asked.
‘No,’ I lied.
‘I wonder what made him do such a terrible
thing,’ she mused, and then answering her own
question when I remained silent. ‘Jealousy, I
suppose, although the police said it could have
been directed at the Minister, an environmental
protest. How do you know that woman?’
‘Jody?’ I hoped my voice didn’t betray my
quickening heart beat. ‘She’s Rosie’s neighbour.’
‘Was she there when you rushed to Rosie’s help
after the break-in?’
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‘No.’ I ignored her sneering tone.
‘How did she get invited tonight?’
‘I invited her Faye. OK?’ I said hotly.
‘No need to be so aggressive, Adam.’
The taxi pulled up outside the house. Faye
followed me into the hall.
‘You’ll have to go down to the station in the
morning to make a statement.’
I tensed. ‘Why?’
‘Because that man destroyed your paintings.
That’s wilful damage or malicious intent or
something,’ she snapped.
‘I’m not pressing charges.’
‘But, Adam –’
‘I won’t and that’s the end of it.’ If only it were.
‘I don’t understand. Why not?’ Her voice was
taut with anger.
I should have told her then about Alison.
‘Pressing charges won’t save my paintings. It
won’t undo what has happened here tonight.
Let’s forget about it.’
‘You run away from everything, don’t you,
Adam?’
If only she knew about Jack! ‘Drop it, Faye.’
‘You’re pathetic,’ and she flounced out of the
room.
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I let out a breath. I should have told her. The
moment had come and gone but I had remained
silent. I couldn’t get the words out. Soon I would
have to. Soon Ben would tell the police
everything and I’d have to explain what had
happened to Alison not only to them but to Faye.
I didn’t think she was going to take the news
very well.
I didn’t expect to sleep. I lay perfectly still not
wanting to wake Faye, staring into the blackness
trying hard to remember more of the
circumstances of Alison’s death; they eluded me,
as always. After a while I gave it up. It wasn’t
getting me anywhere. Angrily I pushed the past
away and returned to Jack. I could hear Faye’s
gentle breathing beside me and, as the rain
drummed against the windows I assembled the
facts in my mind: I knew that the cancer had
been caused by a fire, most probably on board a
ship in the dockyard if Jack’s choice of ‘The
Fighting Temeraire’ meant anything, and that ship
must have had some kind of chemical substance
on it. The incident could have occurred on 4 th
July 1994. I still couldn’t recall Jack mentioning
anything about fighting a fire on board a ship,
but then he had rarely talked about work when
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we were out sailing. I had to find out which ship
and which substance. It sounded so simple.
Maybe the fire reports would give me the
answers on Monday. Until then I could do
nothing but wait.
I turned over and pulled the bedclothes over
me. Faye stirred. Tomorrow I would know if Ben
had told the police about Alison’s death.
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CHAPTER 8
I
t was ten o’clock the next morning when they
telephoned. I was polite but firm. They
pressed me but I stuck to my decision. As I saw
it, I had no option. The next call was from Steve
Langton ten minutes later.
‘What’s this I hear about you not wanting to
press charges?’ he launched rather irritably. I
didn’t blame him.
‘It’s not worth it, Steve. They’re only paintings;
they can be cleaned.’ A moment’s silence in
which I counted silently to five before Steve spoke.
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‘It’s criminal damage. He could do it again.’
‘Charging him and letting him go won’t stop
him, will it?’
‘It might for a while,’ he replied dubiously. ‘I
can’t hold him. I’ve got a cell full of Christmas
drunks and soccer hooligans.’
‘Then let him go.’ What if he comes here? I
hoped he would. It was time for us to talk.
‘His name’s Ben Harrow.’
Harrow? Why not Lydeway? Had Alison’s
father died and her mother remarried? Perhaps
Ben had taken his new father’s name? Or had
he changed it by deed poll? It didn’t really matter
what he was called, I knew it was Alison’s
younger brother. So he hadn’t told the police
about Alison. Or was Steve just trying me out?
Steve said, ‘Do you know him?’
‘No.’ It was the truth after all. ‘Did he say why
he did it?’
‘No. Martin says he didn’t damage the building
but he does want to claim off the insurance for
the damage to your paintings. He’ll need a crime
number so the crime has to be logged. We have
the culprit so we will need to charge him.’
‘Then Martin can press charges.’ I heard Steve
sigh. ‘How did he get in to the exhibition?’
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‘Said he was with the caterers, simply walked
in.’
‘Did he say where he lived?’
‘He’s staying at the White Sails Hotel,
Southsea. We checked. He registered in the name
of Ben Harrow a week ago. It’s his real name
according to his driving licence and passport. We
ran a check through the computer: he’s not got a
criminal record and he’s not claiming benefit.’
‘Any joy with Jack’s investigation?’ I didn’t
expect anything but I thought I would ask
anyway, if only to distract him from Ben Harrow.
‘I sent an officer around to question the
neighbours, but he got the three monkeys: see
no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. I’ll apply to
see the fire reports on Monday.’
‘I’ve already done that. Brookfield is putting
in a request for me.’
‘Adam…’
‘I need to know why Jack died, Steve.’ Silence.
I said, ‘Did you know that Jack swapped his duty
with another fire fighter called Ian?’
‘Adam, leave it. You’re barking up completely
the wrong tree.’
Maybe I was but I didn’t admit to it. His
comment also made me remain silent about my
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idea of the fire in 1994 being in the dockyard.
Red Watch was on nights tonight. I thought I
might drop by and have a word with Ian.
After Faye had gone out shopping I headed for
the White Sails Hotel. I steeled myself to meet
Ben Lydeway’s hatred and anger. I tried to
rehearse what to say but I couldn’t. What was
there to say except that I was sorry his sister had
died?
I parked in front of the hotel, which faced the
rock gardens and the seafront, and removing my
helmet walked up the four steps into a rather
shabby reception where I interrupted a woman
in her thirties in mid yawn. I asked for Ben
Harrow.
‘Room 14. First floor.’
I climbed the stairs feeling nervous. My heart
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was pounding. Ben had wanted a meeting; the
demonstration in the art gallery, and his
subsequent silence at the police station, were his
calling card. If he hadn’t spoken to the police
then that could mean only one thing: he wanted
to speak to me.
The door was ajar and the narrow corridor
partly blocked by the chambermaid’s trolley. I
knocked and waited. Nothing. I tried again. Still
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nothing. A grey-haired woman carrying a white
miniature poodle came out of a room further
down the corridor and glanced at me.
‘Ben, it’s Adam Greene,’ I said quietly. The
woman tutted as if I’d said something obscene.
As she passed me she made childish noises to
her little white dog.
‘Ben.’ Still no answer. I pushed back the door
half expecting to see the chambermaid inside but
the room was empty. I crossed swiftly to a small
en suite shower room but wherever Ben Lydeway
was, it wasn’t here. I made to leave when a silver-
framed photograph on the bedside cabinet
caught my eye. It drew me like a magnet. I lifted
it and stared into Alison’s laughing green eyes.
My heart lurched. Her image had become clouded
over the years, tainted by the memory of that
accident. It was as if I was seeing her for the first
time in years: the vibrant young woman and not
the battered and bloodied body on the ground.
I stiffened. I had seen her on the ground then.
I hadn’t recalled that before and if that were so, I
couldn’t have been in that room pushing her.
But perhaps I had run down the stairs after she
had fallen? No, I was sure I had been on the
pathway when she had fallen.
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I replaced the photograph. The receptionist
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was on the telephone so I simply nodded at her
and walked out intending to return later.
Perhaps Ben had gone for a walk to clear his
head of the stench of incarceration, something I
knew only too well. I crossed to the promenade
and down on to the stones to the water’s edge.
To my left was the pier at the end of which were
a couple of bedraggled fishermen huddled under
layers of waterproof clothing and woolly hats
staring into a gunmetal sea. It was damp and chill
with hardly a soul about. The shops beckoned
warmth, colour, life and light; offering the
illusion of happiness that would dissipate the
moment the tawdry wrapping paper was ripped
off the presents that few people wanted and even
fewer could afford.
My mobile rang. I didn’t even bother to look
at who was calling but answered it automatically.
‘I thought I’d see how you are after yesterday.’
It was as if the sun had suddenly broken
through the blanket greyness. My spirits lifted
at the sound of Jody’s voice and at the same time
I felt a twinge of guilt that Faye had never had
this effect on me, nor was likely ever to. Only
Alison had made me feel something like this.
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‘I’m fine.’
She must have heard the hesitation in my voice.
‘I haven’t disturbed you painting.’
‘No. I’m on the seafront. I needed a breath of
fresh air.’ I couldn’t even tell her the truth.
‘I’m sorry about your paintings,’ she said gently.
‘They’re only paintings. It doesn’t matter.’
A short silence then, ‘Are the police going to
charge him?’
‘Not if I have anything to do with it. It’s not
worth it, Jody.’
‘I’m sorry I dashed off like that. I didn’t want
to get in your wife’s way.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘You were going to tell me how you were
getting on with your investigations.’
I told her about my ideas on ‘The Fighting
Temeraire’. ‘I can check it out once I get the fire
reports.’
‘I’ll ask around myself if you like. I’m based
inside the dockyard. Someone might recall a fire
here in 1994.’
‘It’s a long time ago.’ I didn’t hold out much
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hope of anyone remembering that far back. ‘I
don’t think you should, Jody. It could be
dangerous.’
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‘I’ll be careful, I promise.’
I rode home feeling happier at having spoken
to her but concerned that she could become a
target herself. There was a message flashing on
the answer machine. It was from Carol
Rushmere. She had found her husband’s
scrapbooks and she said that I could collect them
tomorrow evening if I liked. I did very much, I
only wished I could go now.
Faye returned with her shopping and I
retreated to the studio where I stared at the walls
and canvases and played games on my computer.
She called me when the evening meal was ready
which we began to eat in silence only we didn’t
get very far before the doorbell rang.
‘Who on earth can that be?’ Faye said with
irritation, rising to answer it but I beat her to it.
Standing on the threshold were two men: one
tall and bony in his mid fifties, the other shorter
and fatter in his mid thirties.
‘Mr Greene? Adam Greene?’ the younger of
the two asked.
‘Yes?’ I replied warily.
‘Detective Sergeant Wilcox and Detective
Inspector Staples.’ The younger man flashed his
warrant card. ‘Can we come in?’
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I couldn’t very well say no although I would
have liked to. I felt a sliver of fear creep up my
spine. I told myself they must have come about
me not wanting to press charges against Ben.
Would they send two officers of such high rank
though? I doubted it. What did they want in that
case? Could they possibly be here because Ben
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had told them I pushed Alison from that
window?
‘If it’s about the incident in the art gallery last
night,’ I began, ‘I’ve already said that I’m not
pressing charges.’
‘Who is it, Adam? Your dinner’s getting cold.’
Faye called out.
‘It’s the police,’ I shouted back, then to the two
policemen, ‘You’d better come through.’ I waved
them into the lounge as Faye appeared in the hall.
‘What do they want?’ she mouthed. I shrugged.
With a frown and a sigh she returned to the
kitchen and I heard her put the dinner in the
oven, as I followed the policemen into the
lounge.
The sergeant sat on the sofa by the window
but the inspector remained standing with his
back to the fireplace. I saw his sharp, grey eyes
scan the room. I perched on the chair directly
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opposite him. I did my best to appear relaxed,
but I doubted if I was fooling anyone. Faye
entered, and I quickly introduced her.
‘We were just having dinner, inspector,’ she said
stiffly. ‘Can’t this wait?’
‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Greene. There are some
questions we’d like to ask your husband. We can
go down to the station if it’s more convenient.’
Christ! Ben had told them! They’d come to
arrest me! I tried not to show fear but these men
could scent it at a hundred yards. I wished Steve
Langton were here. I tried to tell myself this was
simply routine and it would soon be over, but I
didn’t believe it.
‘I can answer any questions here,’ I said
abruptly. Faye flashed me a look and sat down in
the chair next to me, across a small glass table.
The sergeant removed a notepad from his
jacket pocket. ‘I believe you know Ben Harrow,
Mr Greene?’
My heart felt heavy with dread and a pulse
throbbed in my head. I held the sergeant’s eyes.
‘No, I don’t know Ben Harrow, but if you’re
asking me if I have met him then yes, I did. We
both did,’ I glanced at Faye, ‘last night, at the art
gallery.’
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‘And you haven’t seen him since?’
‘No.’ My body was rigid with tension.
‘You didn’t call on him earlier today?’
I could feel Faye’s eyes on me but didn’t dare
look at her. They knew I had been to the hotel.
The receptionist and that woman with the poodle
had seen me, but why had they told the police?
Ben hadn’t been there. Had he reported
something stolen from his room?
Before I could answer Faye said, ‘What is this
all about, sergeant?’
The sergeant ignored her and kept his gaze on
me.
I’d no option. ‘Yes, I called on him at his hotel
but he wasn’t there.’
‘Adam, why on earth did you do that?’ Faye
exclaimed.
‘I wanted to know why he had damaged my
paintings,’ I replied as calmly as I could.
The sergeant spoke. ‘What time was this, sir?’
‘About ten-thirty. I went up to his room and
knocked on his door. There was no answer.’
‘You didn’t go in?’
‘Look, why are you asking me all these
questions? He damaged my paintings, not the
other way round. I’m not the criminal.’ As I
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spoke, my mind was racing. Should I tell them I
went inside and picked up Alison’s photograph?
Why were they interested?
‘So you had a grudge against him?’
‘Hardly a grudge. I was upset at my paintings
but it’s not the end of the world.’
‘You didn’t want to get your own back?’ the
inspector said. His tone was casual but his eyes
were hard as granite.
‘No.’ Now I was puzzled. ‘I went to talk to
him.’
In the silence that followed I could hear my
heart beating. It seemed so loud that I thought
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they must all hear it.
The sergeant spoke. ‘You haven’t answered my
question, Mr Greene. Did you enter his room?’
I again had no option. ‘Yes, I did. I called out
to him in case he was in the shower and checked
it when there was no answer. He wasn’t there. I
left.’
‘Did you touch anything?’
I tensed. Why these questions? What had
happened to Ben? Clearly something had and if
that were so the police would take fingerprints.
They would know. I said, forcing my voice to
remain even, ‘The doors obviously and I think I
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might have picked up a photograph frame.’
‘Why would you do that, sir?’
I could feel Faye’s eyes boring into me. ‘I
thought I recognised the woman in the picture.’
‘And did you?’
Faye saved me. Her voice cold and firm.
‘Inspector, I think you should tell us what has
happened.’
The inspector looked at us, his hands clasped
behind his narrow back. ‘Ben Harrow was found
dead in his hotel bedroom at two o’clock this
afternoon. It is estimated he died some time
between ten this morning and midday. We are
treating his death as suspicious.’
His words sucked the breath from my body.
Ben dead? How? Why? Who? My mind
struggled to make sense of this.
Faye shot out of her seat. ‘You can’t possibly
believe my husband has anything to do with that
man’s death. Adam wouldn’t hurt anyone. This
is preposterous.’
My mouth was dry, my head throbbing. Did
this have anything to do with Jack’s death? But
how could it?
The sergeant said, rising, ‘If you would like to
accompany us to the station, sir, there are some
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further questions we would like to ask you.’
‘You’re arresting me?’ I felt as though the room
was spinning whilst I fought to keep calm.
‘We’d just like to ask you some questions and
take fingerprint and DNA samples. I hope you’re
going to co-operate, Mr Greene.’
The way he said it left me with little choice.
Faye said, ‘I’ll call Graham Johnson. He’s a
solicitor. Don’t say anything until he arrives.’
‘Faye, it’s Sunday.’
‘So? It’s what he does for a living. Inspector
you are making a big mistake.’
I looked at the inspector’s face. He didn’t think
so.
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CHAPTER 9
G
raham Johnson arrived at the police station
not long after me. We learnt from Sergeant
Wilcox that Ben’s room had been ransacked,
which Wilcox accused me of doing in revenge
for my paintings being destroyed. That also
seemed to be the police’s idea of my motive for
killing Ben. I was glad Johnson was there. He
made me stick to my story, the one I’d given the
police at my house.
As the evening wore on, and the questioning
grew more intense it took all my mental effort
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to concentrate and not let my mind flash back to
the past and those other policemen in that other
interview room. I held myself upright, my hands
clasped tightly in my lap, the fingernails digging
into the palms; I knew that if the two policemen
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saw this they’d probably interpret it as a sign of
guilt.
Johnson remained icily cool. I drew some
comfort from the fact that Wilcox was perspiring
sitting in front of me and there were damp
patches of sweat under his armpits.
Coffee had been brought in but I couldn’t
drink it. I was afraid my trembling hands would
betray me. The tape whirred quietly in the corner
recording everything that was said. I wondered
if Steve Langton knew what was happening.
Maybe he did and was not allowed to conduct
the investigation being a personal friend.
‘Why did you go there, Adam?’ Inspector
Staples leant back in his chair and examined his
fingernails as if he was considering a manicure.
I’d lost count of how many times I’d said,
‘Because I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to
find out why he vandalised my paintings.’
Staples lunged forward, his face ugly with
menace. Whatever he was going to say was
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interrupted by a knock at the door. A uniformed
police officer appeared and whispered something
in the inspector’s ear. He frowned, scraped back
his chair and for the benefit of the tape said,
‘Interview suspended at twenty-three fifteen.
Would you like more coffee?’
I shook my head.
The door closed behind the sergeant and the
inspector, leaving a uniformed officer inside the
room with us. Johnson unfolded his elongated
frame from the hard chair and stretched.
‘What do you think is going to happen now?’ I
felt exhausted.
‘They’ll either have to let you go or charge you.
If they charge you, or think they have reasonable
grounds to hold you, they can do so for up to
fifteen hours before it goes before the
superintendent who can hold you for a further
twelve hours.’
A police cell. I didn’t think I could handle that
again.
‘During that time they’ll either try and make
you confess or they’ll try to get more evidence.’
My head came up. ‘I didn’t kill him.’ And if I
didn’t who did and why?
‘Whoever did, their timing is perfect.’
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Johnson’s words pulled me up sharply. I knew
he meant the timing of Ben’s death after the
incident at the art gallery, but I interpreted his
statement differently. What if this had something
to do with Jack? How could it though? There
was no connection between Ben and Jack, or the
fire fighters who had died of cancer. No
connection whatsoever, except…me.
Suddenly I felt cold. I had been making enquiries
into Jack’s death. I had almost been killed. Could
someone be trying to frame me for Ben’s death
in order to get me to stop asking questions? Who
would go to such extremes? It was crazy. And if
I told Johnson he would think so too. The police
would think me paranoid, and if they got hold
of the psychiatrist’s report after Alison’s death
they’d probably have enough to hold me.
Instinctively though, I knew I must be right.
Poor bloody, innocent Ben. It made my blood
boil. I was no longer afraid, I was very angry. Now
I had Ben’s death on my conscience and I had
another reason to continue this quest. Only by
getting to the truth could I make Ben’s death
mean something. But would I be allowed to?
Only if the police let me go and they were hardly
likely to do that.
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That was where I was wrong.
The sergeant returned half an hour later, leaving
the door open behind him as he walked in. ‘Thank
you for your co-operation, sir,’ he said evenly.
‘We’ll be in touch if we need to speak to you again.
Perhaps you wouldn’t mind just making your
statement to the officer here before you leave.’
‘I can go?’ I said startled. Even Johnson looked
surprised.
‘Yes, sir.’
I made my statement, refused a lift home from
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the police and accepted one from Johnson.
‘It didn’t look too good for you back there,’
Johnson said, driving through Portsmouth’s
deserted streets.
Tell me about it, I thought. I peered through
the windscreen into a mist-shrouded night
examining recent events. Why had the police
released me? Did they have new evidence that
put me in the clear? Perhaps the police had
changed their minds about Ben’s death being
suspicious. Even if they had I was still convinced
that someone had killed him.
I knew that eventually the police would find
out who Ben Harrow really was and then they’d
make the connection with Alison. Would they
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return to question me? Maybe, but I didn’t have
time to worry about that now. I had to find out
who had killed Jack. I’d already missed out
talking to Ian tonight but he would be on duty
again tomorrow night. And tomorrow I would
talk to Sandy Ditton at the Maritime Museum.
Faye was waiting for me when I put the key in
the lock and stepped inside the hall. She looked
relieved to see me, but she didn’t run to me with
open arms. I followed her through to the kitchen
giving her the gist of what had happened but I
was too tired to go into much detail.
‘I knew they’d made a mistake. How could
anyone think you capable of murder, Adam? It’s
impossible.’
Is it? Although I didn’t want to be accused of
murder, it was Faye’s tone that unsettled me. It
reminded me too much of Simon’s. Perhaps she
hadn’t forgiven me for not pressing charges
against Ben.
‘How do you know Graham Johnson?’ I asked,
a little later, as I stepped into the shower to wash
the stench of that interview room off my skin.
‘He was a client when I worked for the
advertising agency in Portsmouth,’ Faye called
back. ‘He’s very good.’
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‘I’m glad he was there.’
I stepped out of the shower and towelled
myself down walking through to the bedroom.
Faye was in bed. ‘Will you be all right if I go
into work tomorrow? We’re very busy.’
‘You don’t have to wet-nurse me, Faye. I am
capable of looking after myself.’
‘I sometimes wonder that, Adam,’ she said
stiffly but I held her stare forcing her to look
away.
I wondered if she would still have gone into
work if I’d been locked away in a cell.
‘I’m staying up in London all week,’ she said,
as I climbed into bed. ‘You’ll let me know when
your father’s funeral is, won’t you?’ Her voice
was determined.
I didn’t see any way I could prevent her from
attending and now, strangely enough, I didn’t
much care.
I lay back and stared up at the ceiling. I was
glad Faye wasn’t going to be around. It left me
with a clear field to pursue my enquiries, and it
would be safer for her. I had no doubt that
whoever was after me would try again. If Ben
had been killed to frame me, or frighten me off,
then who was to say they wouldn’t try to harm
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Faye, or Jody. I almost shot out of bed. I had to
stop Jody from asking around. I wanted to call
her then, but it was the early hours of the
morning. Only another four and I could get up,
another six and I could call her. My eyes swivelled
to the clock beside me; I willed it onwards.
Faye shook me awake to say she was leaving. I
wasn’t sure what time I fell asleep; it seemed only
minutes ago. I called Jody as soon as it was
decently possible; even then it was barely eight
o’clock. There was no answer. I left a message
urging her not to make enquiries about the fire
and to call me.
I showered, shaved and dressed. I called for
Boudicca but she didn’t come. I even rattled her
dish but it didn’t summon her. ‘Stay out then,’ I
said, closing the door.
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I felt agitated. Time was running out. Where
had Ben gone yesterday? Had he been alone?
Why had the police released me? Had someone
else been seen entering the hotel with Ben?
He had been killed in his room and then the
room ransacked to make it look as though I had
done it. I wondered? Had Ben’s killer been
searching for a diary or notes that Ben had made
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PAULINE R OWSON 144
about me and taken them? That would explain
why the police had found no connection between
Alison and me. If that was the case then why did
the killer want to keep that secret? Surely it
would have been better to have left it and further
incriminated me in Ben’s murder.
I couldn’t wait around here all day waiting for
something to happen. I telephoned Brookfield.
He was on a course. Damn. I left an urgent
message for him to call me. I needed those fire
reports and I needed them now.
I listened to the news on the radio but there
was nothing about Ben’s death. Strange. I knew
that what I was about to do might be foolish, but
I didn’t care. Ben’s death had just upped the anti
and I had to act.
There wasn’t a policeman guarding the
entrance to the White Sails Hotel and neither
was there any blue and white scene of crime tape.
It looked as though nothing untoward had
happened there yesterday. I guessed the police
must have got all the evidence and photographs
they needed.
I crossed to the seafront and took up my
position in the café. Here I could see in both
directions: east and west. The woman with the
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poodle must exercise her dog at some stage and
the best place for that exercise had to be along
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the seafront.
I waited a good hour before I saw her tottering
towards me from the direction of Southsea
Castle. I charged outside and began walking
casually towards her. The poodle was on one of
those stretchable leads and was sniffing around
on the stones. I made for it.
‘Lovely little dog,’ I said, as it sniffed round
my ankles. I ruffled his fur. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Teaco,’ the elderly lady said hesitantly, peering
at me.
‘Hello Teaco, little chap. I expect he can smell
my cat.’ I smiled.
‘He hates cats.’
‘He likes a walk though.’ I looked directly at
the dog’s mistress who gave a little start of
recognition.
‘It’s OK. Police,’ I said authoritatively and
quickly flashed my driving licence card at her,
stuffing it away before she could peer more
closely at it. ‘I wanted a quick word with you.
I’m undercover.’ I wouldn’t have thought myself
capable of such deceit and daring but needs
must…
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‘Is that why were at the hotel yesterday? Drugs
was it? He looked like a drug addict.’
I nodded. Poor Ben. ‘We’re keeping it as low
key as we can so that we can get the man behind
the drug ring.’
‘I thought as much,’ she declared triumphantly.
‘I told that other policeman about you. I didn’t
know who you were.’
‘That’s all right. You also told that other
policeman about the man you saw with Ben
Harrow, didn’t you?’ I waited with baited breath.
Was I right?
‘I heard them speaking.’
Yes! Was that why the police had let me go,
they had another suspect. ‘What were they talking
about?’
‘It was too muffled to hear. They didn’t talk
for long.’
No, I thought, the other man was busy killing
Ben. ‘Did you see this other man leave?’
‘Not really. Only the back of him. I looked out
of my window. He climbed into a dark blue van.’
The same colour van that Jody’s landlady had
seen outside Jack’s house on the day of the
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funeral and break in. ‘What was he like this man?
Tall, short fat, thin?’
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‘Tallish. I couldn’t really see.’
So, not much there. I was disappointed, though
I hadn’t really expected much. ‘Did the
receptionist see him? You must have talked about
this.’
‘The other policemen asked me all this,’ she
said irritably.
‘I’m sorry but we have to check and double
check. People don’t always recall everything
immediately after the incident. It can take a
couple of days to remember something trivial
that might actually be important.’
‘There was some kind of commotion in the
kitchen. Someone had left the tap on and flooded
the place. She was called away to attend to it.’
Well-orchestrated then. I thanked her, ruffled
the dog’s head and with a plea for her to say
nothing about our meeting that I doubted she
would keep, let her go. I had learnt little, except
Ben had probably been killed by a tallish man,
but even that was unreliable.
I stopped off at the newsagents. There was a
small paragraph on page three about Ben’s
death. I widened my eyes as I read, ‘The police
are not treating it as suspicious.’ Why not?
What about this other man? The article
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PAULINE R OWSON 148
mentioned a suspected drugs overdose; the old
lady had been right. The police hadn’t told me
how Ben had been killed even though I had
asked. So, this wasn’t a murder enquiry but
either suicide or accidental death. Had I got this
wrong? I made to close the newspaper when
another news article on the opposite page
caught my eye.
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A fire at a residential nursing home on Hayling
Island has claimed the life of an elderly resident.
The fire at the Stella Hardlay Nursing Home was
discovered in the early hours of Saturday
morning by a member of staff. Three appliances
from Havant and Hayling Island attended the fire
and fire fighters helped the twenty-two residents
to safety but one man had already been overcome
with smoke. He has been named as Albert
Honeyman. It is thought that the fire started in
his room and was caused by an electrical fault.
Stella Hardlay not Stella Hardway!
I pulled out the postcard and went through the
letters. Yes! I could get both names from Jack’s
letters – Stella Hardlay and Albert Honeyman.
Had Jack called on this elderly man? My spine
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tingled. I knew he had. I didn’t know why though,
and there was only one way to find out. Hayling
Island it had to be.
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CHAPTER 10
T
he sea was grey and choppy as I crossed the
bridge on to Hayling Island to the east of
Portsmouth. I wondered if I should have called
Rosie and told her who Stella Hardlay was, or
rather what it was. I decided I would after I
discovered exactly why Jack had been
telephoning the place.
I swept into a gravel driveway that led up to a
large Edwardian whitewashed house. I was
surprised to find business as usual. This was
explained by one of the carers who answered the
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door to me, a big boned young woman with a
mass of marmalade-coloured hair and black eye
make- up.
‘The fire was at the back in the new extension.
We’ve sealed it off and have had to double up on
rooms. I can tell you the five residents we’ve had
to move are not very happy. It’s only until the
end of the week but they don’t like their routine
being disturbed. They don’t seem too upset over
Mr Honeyman’s death, but then he wasn’t very
popular, poor man.’
‘It’s him I’ve come to enquire about,’ I said. ‘A
friend of mine contacted your nursing home a
short while ago. He was a fire fighter, Jack
Bartholomew, and–’
‘You mean the man who was killed in the fire
at the old Labour Club!’ she exclaimed.
‘You knew him?’ I asked surprised. I hadn’t
expected instant recognition.
‘I remember him because he was so friendly,
and he came to see poor Mr Honeyman.’
My heart began to race. ‘When was this?’
‘About a month ago. Mr Honeyman told us
not to let him in again if he called. I couldn’t
understand why, when he had no other visitors
except one old man who looked like a tramp.’
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What had Jack said to make Honeyman ban
him from visiting again? And why had
Honeyman died in a fire and now? Surely that
was too much of a coincidence. I had to be on
the right trail. I needed information about
Honeyman and I needed it now.
‘Can you tell me anything about him?’
‘He was very temperamental. I hope that
doesn’t sound too disrespectful?’
I assured her it didn’t with a smile and an
encouraging nod. ‘Did he ever talk about the
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past? What he did for a living?’
She was shaking her head. ‘He didn’t talk
much at all, except to complain. You’d best
speak to the matron, she could tell you more
about him.’
Was my luck about to change? I hoped so.
After knocking briefly, the marmalade-haired
girl pushed her head around a door and said, ‘Mrs
Davey, there’s a man here would like to talk to
you about Mr Honeyman.’
The middle-aged woman looked up from her
desk with a scowl on her moonlike face. Hastily
I stepped forward. ‘I’m terribly sorry to intrude
on you when you must have so much to do, but
a friend of mine believes her late husband knew
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Mr Honeyman. I wondered if you could tell me
a little about him.’
Her expression softened. ‘I thought you might
be a journalist.’
She nodded her dismissal to the young woman
and waved me into a seat opposite. She looked
to me like a no-nonsense kind of woman in her
sensible clothes and brogues. I hoped she’d give
me some no-nonsense answers to my questions.
‘This must be a terrible time for you,’ I began.
‘How did the fire start?’
‘His electric blanket apparently. The fire
investigations people have taken what remains
away for further examination but it appears he
fell asleep with it on and it short-circuited.’
I wouldn’t have thought anyone would need
an electric blanket here. It was stifling hot and I
was beginning to sweat under my leather jacket.
She said, ‘The owners will want a scapegoat of
course; they always do. I might as well resign
now only I’m not going to give them the
pleasure.’
‘Have any of Mr Honeyman’s relatives been
to see you?’
‘He didn’t have any.’
‘Then who has he named as his next of kin?’
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‘His solicitor, Peter Goodman of Goodmans
and Hopper in Portsmouth. I have, of course,
informed them.’
‘And is there nothing left belonging to Mr
Honeyman, no photographs, diary?’
‘No, the room is completed gutted.’
How convenient for the killer and
inconvenient for me. I was convinced that
whoever had killed Jack and Ben had also killed
Honeyman.
‘Perhaps you could tell me something about
Mr Honeyman that might help Mrs
Bartholomew. Her husband visited Mr
Honeyman just before he was killed and she’d
like to find out why’
Mrs Davey pulled off her gold-rimmed
spectacles. ‘I’m not sure there is anything to tell.
He didn’t mix very much.’
‘According to the young lady who showed me
in, Mr Honeyman didn’t want to see Mr.
Bartholomew again. Did they argue?’
‘I don’t know. But Mr Honeyman did seem
very upset after Mr Bartholomew’s visit.’
‘Do you know why he wanted to see Mr
Honeyman? It’s a bit of a mystery to us.’
She shook her head. ‘Then it will probably have
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to remain one. I have no idea and I doubt Mr
Honeyman would have confided in any of the
other residents or staff.’
Another bloody dead end. ‘What did Mr
Honeyman do for a living?’ I asked not really
expecting her to provide the answer. I was
growing used to disappointment
‘He was in the merchant navy, a chief officer
or mate as I think they are sometimes called.’
I sat up at that. Turner’s painting immediately
sprang to my mind. I had made the right
connection: a fire on board a ship, not in the
dockyard or a Royal Navy ship, but on a
container ship, which meant the commercial
port.
‘Who did he work for?’ I could trace the fire
through his company. Judging by her expression
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though she obviously didn’t want to tell me.
Hastily I added, ‘I’d like to contact them. It’s
possible that Mr Bartholomew was related to Mr
Honeyman.’ I could see that I wasn’t convincing
her.
‘I’m sorry that information is confidential.’
He’s dead, I felt like screaming at her. What
harm can it do? ‘It’s important,’ I urged.
‘You’ll have to contact his solicitor.’
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Seeing that I would get nothing further from
her I left as her telephone rang and headed back
to Portsmouth. I tried Brookfield again, to be
told he was still on his course. I left yet another
message for him to call me urgently. Jody hadn’t
called me back either. I tried her again and got
her answer machine. Damn! Where was she? I
felt as though I was sitting on a time bomb. How
long would it take before the police hauled me
in again? Or how long before I was silenced like
Jack, Ben and now poor old Mr Honeyman?
The roll-call of dead was growing. The
accidents becoming too numerous. This threat
wasn’t imaginary. Jack had known that and now
so did I. I didn’t want anything to happen to
Jody.
I dropped into the solicitors and asked to see
Mr Goodman, only to be told that I needed to
make an appointment. This I duly did, with
much irritation, for the next morning. I wasn’t
optimistic that he would give me the information
I required so I decided to shortcut him – I called
on Nigel Steep at the commercial port.
‘It’s good of you to spare me the time.’
Steep smiled, giving me the glint of a gold
tooth. ‘No trouble at all, Adam. I’m sorry about
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what happened at the exhibition. You must be
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devastated.’
‘I hope they weren’t the paintings you wanted
to buy.’
‘No, thankfully. Can they be cleaned?’
‘I expect so. I’ve left Martin sorting that out.
I’ve come because I’d like your help, Nigel.’
‘Of course anything.’
‘A friend of mine died recently, Jack
Bartholomew. He was a fire fighter.’
‘I read about that. Tragic business. I didn’t
realise you knew him. I’m sorry.’
I smiled my gratitude for the sympathy, which
was genuinely given. ‘I want to paint a ship on
fire as a tribute to him and I think he may have
attended a fire on board a ship here or in the
dockyard, in 1994. Do you recall it?’
Steep shook his head. ‘That would have been
before my time. I’ve only been here five years.
Can’t the fire service help you?’
‘They’re checking their records, but I thought
I’d just ask you.’ I tried to hide my disappointment.
Steep said, ‘You could try the Maritime and
Coastguard Agency, they’ll know, or the Marine
Accident Investigations Board. They keep a
database of reportable incidents.’
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My spirits lifted. ‘Do any of the ships that come
in here carry hazardous cargos?’
‘Some. The most dangerous we’ve had is lead
but if there’s a fire with that on board it gets
ditched overboard very quickly, and that goes for
other dangerous chemicals.’
I wondered what Jody would think of that and
the possible danger to marine life. ‘What would
be the procedure if there was a fire?’
‘The pilot would liaise with the Queen’s
Harbour Master and decide whether to take the
ship out of the harbour and then put it alongside
a navy facility if possible, so that they could fight
the fire.’
‘So if I were to paint a container ship on fire in
the port that wouldn’t be realistic?’
Steep hesitated. ‘It’s possible but unlikely. A
fire at sea would be better, with a tugboat or a
navy boat squirting water jets on to it. Fire
fighters would probably fight it from a safe
distance after making sure the crew were off.’
‘And that would be big news?’
‘Oh yes.’
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I had found nothing like that in the local
newspaper. It had to be something else but I was
so convinced I was right.
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Outside I got the number of the Marine
Accident Investigations Board and put in a call
to them. A lady said she would check it out for
me and e-mail me any details. The Maritime and
Coastguard Agency said they would check and
could I call back tomorrow?
I grabbed a late lunch by the Hard where the
tourists milled around the steel warship, HMS
Warrior , and then made for the Maritime
Museum hoping that Sandy Ditton would
remember a fire in 1994.
‘Can’t say I do,’ he said, after I had given him
my story about the painting.
We stepped out of the museum. A stiff damp
wind rolled off the sea bringing with it the taste
of salt and the smell of mud. Behind us was
Nelson’s flagship, HMS Victory, with flags flying
from its three tall masts.
Ditton took a packet of cigarettes from his
jacket pocket and offered me one. I declined.
Even before he spoke there was something about
the thin, auburn-haired man in his late fifties that
irritated me. Perhaps it was his air of self-
importance.
I hadn’t forgotten that this man was on the
watch in 1994 and could be the next cancer victim,
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like Brookfield. If Ditton had remembered, and
it had been that easy, then Jack would have
spoken to him and got to the truth quicker and
certainly before he died. Ditton would also
probably have met with an accident, which made
me think that perhaps all those connected with
whatever incident had prompted the cancer were
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dead. Honeyman could have been the last link,
or rather the last but one: there was still me. Then
it dawned on me. If Jack couldn’t recall the fire
himself that had caused the cancer, but had had
to interview men like Honeyman to trace it, then
it couldn’t have been very memorable. It also
meant that the others on the watch at that time
were unlikely to recall it. This was a waste of
time.
‘1994…That was the year Tony Blair took over
the Labour Party.’
‘Was it?’ I replied disinterestedly, itching to get
away.
‘Not so you’d notice any difference between
his lot and the Tories. The Labour party stole
the middle ground right under the Tories’ noses.
I stood for Parliament once, against Bill
Bransbury. He was Conservative then. I didn’t
get elected, glad I didn’t now, the state the party’s
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in, but old Bransbury’s done well for himself
since he crossed the floor. Tony rewarded him
of course, Minister for the Environment, Energy
and Waste.’
Hastily I interrupted trying to salvage
something from the interview. ‘Did you ever
keep a diary or scrapbook?’
‘Only of my political career. You’re welcome
to look at that.’
‘No thanks,’ I said rather hurriedly and saw
Ditton frown at my ungraciousness.
‘I’d better be getting back.’ He pinched out his
cigarette with his forefinger and thumb and
returned the butt to the packet.
‘If anything occurs to you perhaps you’d give
me call.’ I handed him a card
‘Be pleased to.’
I was unable to shake off the impression that I
had made a mistake in involving Ditton. There
was nothing to actively dislike about the man but
I was left with a bad taste in my mouth. There
was something not quite genuine about him, but
that could be because of the size of the man’s
ego. When he had stepped out of the museum
he had the air of a man who owned it rather than
worked in it, still that was no crime.
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Every avenue I explored became a cul de sac.
Where the devil was Brookfield with those fire
reports?
A voice hailed me and I looked up to see Jody
waving at me. Relief and pleasure flooded
through me as I hurried towards her.
‘Where have you been? I’ve been trying to
contact you all day.’
Her smile quickly vanished to be replaced by
an anxious expression. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘We can’t talk here.’
‘I’ll meet you in the café in Action Stations in
five minutes. Just let me dump these.’
Only now did I see the large plastic bag full of
barnacles and other sea encrustations in her hand,
and that her hair was plastered to her small head.
A very large red and navy sailing jacket swamped
her, reaching almost to her knees.
‘OK.’
I waited impatiently in the mezzanine café, my
eyes scouring the entrance for her. A couple of
minutes later she arrived, minus the sailing jacket
and plastic bag.
‘Didn’t you get my message?’
‘I’ve been out on a harbour launch visiting
the site where the Mary Rose was found and
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collecting sea specimens. What’s happened?’
I told her. She looked worried. I didn’t blame
her. I was worried. ‘I don’t want you asking
around, Jody. In fact, I don’t want you having
anything more to do with this.’
She let out a long breath. In the silence that
fell between us I could hear the sounds of the
interactive attractions, the voice-overs of the
videos and the whirring of the simulated rides
in a Lynx helicopter.
Her eyes locked mine for a moment. She made
to speak then seemed to change her mind.
‘I want you to promise not to do anything. This
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isn’t your problem.’
‘It’s not yours either, Adam,’ she said quietly.
‘I owe it to Jack.’ I hadn’t told her that I knew
Ben. I hadn’t told her about Alison.
‘Jack’s dead. He won’t know. If you stop now
you’ll be safe.’
I stared at her. There was something in her eyes
and in her voice that bothered me. I couldn’t say
what? I couldn’t pin it down. Was it more than
concern? It sounded almost like a warning, but
why should she warn me off? She looked away
and scraped back her chair.
‘I must be going.’
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‘Jody…?’
‘Yes?’
‘I can’t stop. I have to go on.’
She smiled sadly. ‘I thought you might say that.’
I watched her walk away. At the entrance she
turned. As I made my way to Carol Rushmere’s
I couldn’t get Jody’s expression and her tone of
voice out of my mind. Neither could I forget
her words. She hadn’t promised not to ask
around. Why should she still want to help? This
wasn’t her fight. This wasn’t anything to do with
her. Jack had only been a neighbour. Or had he?
I rode slowly over the speed humps in the wet,
cold December evening trying to shake off the
feeling that there was more to Jody Piers than
she had led me to believe, and more perhaps to
her relationship with Jack. I didn’t much like
those thoughts so I tried to shove them away.
They persisted, seeping into me like the rain.
Carol Rushmere handed me a plastic carrier bag
containing three scrapbooks. I only needed the
one that covered 1994 but I didn’t tell her that.
Boudicca was waiting for me when I reached
home. I left her gobbling down her dinner as if
I’d starved her for a week and took the carrier
bag through to the lounge where I poured myself
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a large whisky and withdrew the three soft-
covered books. I opened the first one, which
spanned the period from 1990 to 1995. The first
page contained two press cuttings of fires, Woman
Rescued from Kitchen Blaze and Blaze Home hit by
Smoke Damage. There were also some
photographs of firemen dressed in women’s
clothes at a pensioners’ Christmas party. The date
was 1990. I recognised Jack dressed in a woman’s
wig, stockings and suspenders with clown-like
make-up on his face. A fleeting smiled tugged at
the corners of my mouth.
The following pages chartered Vic Rushmere’s
fire service career: a blaze at the old bus depot at
Eastney before it was pulled down to build
houses, an armed siege, a car crash, a warehouse
blaze, and a fire wrecked garage. 1994 and more
fires, an explosion in a block of flats, floods at
the small village of Finchdean, more charity
fundraising events, a naval exercise that involved
a mock blaze on board a ship in the dockyard
and a workman freed from a trench that had
collapsed on him. Then came a series of press
cuttings taken on bonfire night, a blaze in a hotel
on the seafront, a house fire… but I had gone
too far, I was now into 1995.
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I flicked through the remaining pages, but
could only see more of the same. Could it be
that mock ship blaze? I turned back the page. It
was the right year but wrong date. It was in April
and not July. Perhaps the date on the postcard,
4th July, had nothing to do with the actual date of
the fire but had just been used by Jack to draw
my attention to the quotation?
Was there something on board that ship that
had triggered the cancer? But it would only have
been an exercise and a Royal Navy one rather
than merchant navy. Honeyman wouldn’t have
been involved in that.
I sat back with a sigh and sipped my whisky,
feeling disheartened. Boudicca strolled in,
glanced at me and seeing I was too restless for
her to sit on, plumped for the rug in front of the
fireplace. She didn’t like the leather chairs, which
I think was the reason why Faye had bought
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them.
Surely it was mad of me to continue with this.
If I stopped now perhaps they’d leave me alone.
But they hadn’t left poor Ben Lydeway alone.
Jody’s words came back to me: if you stop now
you’ll be safe . I didn’t owe those fire fighters
anything; surely I could walk away? But I couldn’t.
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No matter how many warnings I had I was
determined to get to the truth.
The phone rang making me jump. It was
Simon.
‘Cremation’s on Thursday 12.30pm. The
wake’s at the house, Harriet’s organising it. Are
you coming?’
‘Yes, I’ll be there.’ I rang off and almost instantly
my phone rang again. This time it was
Brookfield. At last.
‘Adam, I’m sorry but the incident reports you
want aren’t available. They’ve been taken away
for data entry; the system is being computerised.’
How bloody convenient, I thought, trying to
stem my disappointment. Of course it was a lie
and if it was a lie then was it Brookfield who was
lying or was some power higher up pulling the
strings? If that were so then this thing was bigger
than even I had guessed at.
I stared down at the scrapbook. Someone was
going to a great deal of trouble to keep a secret,
and one that had cost lives and was still costing
them. I knew I couldn’t give up. Even if it meant
my death, I had to continue. I was surprised to
find that the thought exhilarated me rather than
frightened or depressed me.
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‘Here’s to you, Jack,’ I said quietly, tossing back
the remainder of my drink. I thought I almost
heard him answer.
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CHAPTER 11
I
t was almost 8.30am the next morning when
I called at the fire station.
‘Ian’s gone sick. His doctor’s put him on anti
depressants and signed him off for a fortnight,’
Motcombe, the gangly fireman, said in answer
to my enquiry.
Blast. ‘Could you give me his address; I’d like
to talk to him about Jack.’
‘Not sure that’s a good idea, Adam. He’s pretty
cut up.’
‘Perhaps it will help him to talk,’ I suggested.
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Motcombe didn’t seem convinced.
‘What do you want to know? Perhaps I or one
of the others can help.’
I didn’t blame him for being protective towards
one of his colleague. I knew from Jack that there
was a strong mutual bond of support between
the fire fighters. ‘Why did Jack swap with Ian?’
‘No particular reason. We do that sometimes.
Why do you want to know?’
How much should I tell him? It wasn’t that I
didn’t trust him, just that I thought the fewer
people who knew about my investigations the
fewer I would put in danger. I erred on the side
of caution. ‘I’m just trying to make some sense
of Jack’s death, I suppose.’
Motcombe looked sympathetic. ‘It’s hard I
know. There is no reason for it, Adam. It was
just one of those things.’
‘You’re right of course.’ After a moment I said
more brightly, ‘There is another reason for my
visit; it’s to do with my painting. I wondered if
you could show me around the station so I can
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get a feel for the place?’
‘Of course.’
We ended the tour in the appliance room. The
wide doors that led on to the rear yard were open.
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The watch was getting ready to change over. My
eyes caught sight of a board to my right. ‘What’s
that?’
‘The manning board.’
I crossed to look at the coloured tallies hanging
on the small hooks, each tally was engraved with
the name of a fire fighter.
Motcombe explained. ‘The board shows which
watch is on duty, the tallies are colour co-
ordinated to match the watch: red for Red Watch,
green for Green Watch and so on. The red tallies
are on the manning board at the moment because
we’re on duty but they’ll shortly be changing over
to Green Watch for the day duty.’
At the top of each of the four columns on the
board was a set of initials. ‘What do those mean?’
‘Wrl means water tender ladder, Wrt is the water
tender, TL stands for turntable ladder and SEU
stands for special equipment unit. The fire
fighter’s tally is then hung on the relevant hook
to indicate which appliance he or she has been
assigned to.’
‘So where would Jack’s tally have been on the
day he died?’
‘Here, to show he was on the water tender
ladder, riding in the back, wearing breathing
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PAULINE R OWSON 172
apparatus.’ Motcombe indicated the appropriate
spot on the board.
‘And it would have been there after he swapped
with Ian?’
‘Yes. Initially the manning sheet would have
shown Jack driving the water tender and Ian
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wearing breathing apparatus. I seem to
remember that they swapped after Dave read out
the duty roster that morning and then the tallies
were changed over.’
So, if they knew where to look, someone could
easily have slipped into the station when these
doors were opened and seen that Jack was on
the water tender and wearing breathing
apparatus, which meant he’d be first into a
fire.
I thanked Motcombe and headed for my
interview with Honeyman’s solicitor. He told me
nothing. I left his office fuming as his brittle voice
echoed in my head: ‘That is confidential, Mr
Greene.’ He’d uttered it after my every question.
Damn him. I hoped all his clients would sue him.
I called Steve Langton to tell him what
Brookfield had said about the fire reports not
being available.
‘Snap,’ he replied. ‘I got the same response.’
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So it wasn’t Brookfield who was lying, unless
of course he had also lied to the police.
Steve said, ‘I was going to call you.’
‘You’ve got something to tell me about the
investigation?’ I felt my heartbeat quicken.
‘I’ll meet you in the Wayside Café in ten
minutes. Do you know it?’
I did. It was only about a half mile from the
solicitors.
I arrived before Steve and took my coffee to a
table the furthest away from the window. Then
I got to thinking. Perhaps Steve was going to tell
me something about Ben’s death, which had
nothing to do with Jack’s investigation. Had the
police found new evidence that connected me
to it? Had the old lady reported me? If she had, I
reasoned, Steve would hardly ask to meet me,
and in a café, unless he wanted to warn me. I’d
find out soon enough.
I was shocked to see how tired and worried he
looked. There was a deep frown line creasing
his forehead that hadn’t been there last week and
his shoulders seemed more hunched than usual
as if the heavy workload had suddenly become a
strain for him. Steve had always seemed to thrive
on it before.
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‘You’re working too hard,’ I said after he sat
down with his coffee.
‘Try telling the Super that!’
He stared at me with an expression that made
me feel uncomfortable. It was as if he was trying
to see inside my mind.
‘I wasn’t involved in Ben’s death,’ I said quietly.
‘I know.’
I breathed a sigh of relief. He believed me.
‘How did he die, Steve? Inspector Staples was
reluctant to tell me he thought I already knew.’
‘I shouldn’t be telling you this. Drugs
overdose.’
‘That’s what the newspaper article said.’
‘Yes, but what it didn’t say was that Ben Harrow
wasn’t a regular user.’
It took a moment for his words to sink in.
‘You’re saying someone administered it?’
‘I’ll get crucified if anyone finds out I’ve told
you this.’
‘You haven’t,’ I said quickly, wondering why
he was telling me.
‘He was shot ful l of heroin and there was nothing
to indicate he had even used the substance before.’
‘Not a nice way to kill yourself, which means
it must have been…’
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‘He could have got some on the street, didn’t
know how much to use being new to it…’
‘Yeah and my middle name is Rembrandt.
Apart from me was there anyone else seen with
Ben? Where did he go that morning? Who did
he meet? The old lady with the poodle said she
heard him talking to someone.’
‘You’ve spoken to her? For God’s sake, Adam!’
‘I think he was killed to set me up. No, listen.
I’ve been asking questions about Jack’s death –’
‘Stop there. You don’t know what you’re
getting yourself into.’
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Steve studied me. The tune of a familiar
Christmas song floated through the steamy
atmosphere of the café. After a moment he sighed
heavily, shifted in his seat and ran a hand through
his hair before speaking. ‘Do you still think there
was something funny about that break-in at
Jack’s?’
Eagerly I said, ‘Yes, and there’s more. I’ve been
to the fire station and –’
Steve held his hand up to staunch me.
‘Whatever it is, Adam, forget it.’
‘I can’t do that,’ I replied flatly.
‘You might after you hear what I’ve got to say.
This morning I got hauled up in front of the
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Super. He wanted to know all about you and our
relationship.’
A chill ran down my spine. I was beginning to
understand why Steve looked so worried.
‘He ordered me to drop both cases. In precisely
twenty minutes time I’m off for a short
secondment to Basingstoke.’
‘Did he say why?’ I asked, my heart and mind
racing.
‘No. It’s clear though someone wants me out
of the way for a while. Whoever it is doesn’t want
me mixing with you and they don’t want me, or
you, poking around and asking questions about
Jack’s death.’
I knew it. If ever I wanted confirmation here it
was. ‘Then Jack’s death wasn’t an accident.’
Steve urged, ‘Adam, you don’t want to know
about it and neither do I. I’ve got a wife and three
boys to support.’
‘I can’t leave it, not now.’
‘You must. If I’m being pushed away that can
only mean one thing, another agency is involved:
National Crime Squad, Special Branch, MI5?
Take your pick.’
‘Why would they be involved?’
Steve leant forward and lowered his voice even
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though there was no one near us in the café and
the music was loud enough to drown out our
conversation. ‘Because whatever Jack was
investigating must have national ramifications.’
‘You mean a scandal involving someone high
up in government?’ Why did William Bransbury
automatically spring to my mind?
‘Either that or a national operation involving
government secrets. It could be terrorism,
international fraud, drugs…’
‘People have died, Steve.’ I said quietly.
‘And you could be next in line if you’re not
careful,’ he snapped.
‘You’re not suggesting that one of these
government agencies would kill me!’ I said
incredulously.
‘Why not? It’s happened before. It could have
happened to Jack.’ Steve sat back.
I thought for a moment. Then, ‘Can you find
out which agency is involved?’
‘No I bloody can’t.’ Steve shouted. Then more
quietly, ‘Go on holiday, Adam. Go sailing, forget it.’
But I couldn’t do that. Maybe Steve saw the
determination in my face because he frowned at
me and said, ‘I didn’t know you were so bloody
stubborn.’
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And scared, I thought. I said, ‘Someone has to
pay for the deaths.’
‘It might just be you.’
‘Get off to Basingstoke, Steve.’ I was on my
own.
I returned home and went straight to switch on
the computer. While I waited for it to load I
looked around my studio: the canvasses, the
brushes, the rags, the palettes and pots of paint,
they were all still here as they had always been,
but it wasn’t the same. Nothing was the same
anymore. And yet, despite being half scared to
death, I didn’t want to go back to how my life
had been less than a month ago – with one
exception: I wished Jack were still alive.
I watched the spam programme on the e-mail
roll down until I had one message left in my
inbox out of the fifty-five that had come through.
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It was the one I’d hoped for but it didn’t contain
the information I wanted. The Marine Accident
Investigations Board reported no ship fire in 1994
in or around Portsmouth or anywhere in the
Solent. I felt the disappointment keenly. I had
been so convinced I was right. I telephoned the
Maritime and Coastguard Agency and after a
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short while, which to me seemed like an age,
they confirmed the same. Dead end. So if it
wasn’t on a ship the fire had to be either where
Honeyman had lived or stayed. Could it be that
hotel?
I pulled out Vic Rushmere’s scrapbook and re-
read the report on the hotel fire but it revealed
nothing and it seemed highly unlikely that
anything inside the hotel could have caused
cancer. Perhaps Sam Frensham could enlighten
me I thought with little hope. If Jack, Des
Brookfield, and Sandy Ditton couldn’t recall it
what hope had I of Sam Frensham doing so?
Rosie had given me the location of Sam’s hotel
as being just outside Stow on the Wold, in the
Cotswolds. I found the details of it on the
Internet and arranged to see him that afternoon.
It would only take me an hour and a half to get
there on the bike.
It was just gone three when I rode up the long
gravel driveway to the old Manor House, which
looked old enough to have accommodated King
Charles I. I was shown into an office just behind
the main reception by Sam who proved to be a
jovial man, in his mid fifties with a balding head
and twinkling blue eyes. I liked him immediately.
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‘You said on the telephone this is about Jack
Bartholomew.’ He waved me to a seat by a
modern desk, which was in sharp contrast to the
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rest of the hotel. On the desk sat the latest state
of the art computer. ‘Good man, Jack, one of the
best.’ His blue eyes looked sad for a moment. ‘I
remember him coming on watch as a
probationer. He was slightly older than the usual
recruit because of his navy service. Joined when
he was in his late twenties. I think I was in my
late thirties then. There was about ten years
between us. Good fireman. Loved the job. Never
wanted promotion though he was good enough
and clever enough to get it, but sitting behind a
desk wouldn’t have suited Jack. He was a real
action man.’ He smiled as the memories flooded
back. Then he shook his head. ‘Bloody shame. I
don’t suppose they’ve caught the little bastards
who put that gas cylinder inside the building?’
‘It wasn’t kids and it wasn’t an accident.’
Sam looked surprised.
‘It’s my belief that gas cylinder was placed there
deliberately and the building flashed up in order
to kill Jack.’ Sam was eyeing me as if I’d gone
mad. ‘It’s a long story.’ I wasn’t sure if I should
take him into my confidence and if so how much
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I should tell him. I liked his easy manner, his
genuine concern, his kind words about Jack, his
unquestioning hospitality at a very busy time of
year, and I could tell that his staff liked him by
their manner towards him.
Sam said, ‘If there’s anything I can do to help
you only have to ask. Jack was my buddy. He
and Rosie stayed here a few times.’
I told him as much as I dared, leaving out the
attempt on my life, Ben’s death and my arrest.
At times Sam stared at me with an incredulous
expression on his face, at others he scowled;
several times he sat back and ran a hand over his
bald head, seemed about to say something, then
stopped himself.
Finally he exhaled and said, ‘So you reckon this
cancer was caused by something hazardous in a
fire we attended in 1994?’
I nodded.
‘OK, so let’s work this out.’ Sam rose and began
to pace his office. ‘Five men dead, that would
mean that two appliances went to the fire.’
‘Two?’
‘We’ll say the water tender was riding the
officer in charge, a driver, a BA controller and
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two men in breathing apparatus, for example, Vic
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and Scott. The second appliance, the water
tender ladder, would have been carrying a driver
and possibly three fire fighters wearing BA. That
could have been Duggie, Tony and Jack. Only
those men wearing breathing apparatus would
have gone into the fire, making it the five. The
BA controller stays outside, the drivers operate
the pumps, and the officer in charge usually runs
around like a headless chicken.’ He gave a brief
smile.
‘No one else would be at risk then?’
‘No…unless the first pump was riding one
more fire fighter wearing breathing apparatus.’
Sam looked worried. I didn’t blame him. He
pulled a photograph from the wall behind his
desk. ‘That leaves, me, Dave Caton, Sandy
Ditton, Des Brookfield, Colin Woodhall, Brian
Clackton and Stuart Hallington.’
‘And, according to Brookfield, possibly two
other fire fighters who were on secondment.’
‘Brookfield knows about the cancer?’
‘No.’
‘And you say you can’t see the fire reports?’
‘No. Can you can recall a fire on board a ship
in 1994?’
‘Let me think. I left the brigade in 1996, bought
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my first guest house, which I sold in 2000 to buy
this place. Best thing I ever did. So it would have
been two years before I left. I was forty-four then.
I resigned,’ he explained. ‘Could have stayed on
until retirement age at fifty-five but didn’t want
to. My mother died leaving me her house and
some money and Helen and I thought we’d give
this business a go. Always wanted to. Sorry I’m
rambling, but I am thinking.’ He stared down at
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the photograph. ‘1994? I thought, at Jack’s
funeral you know, how many of us from the old
watch were gone. Lucky Brian’s still alive…for
now.’ He turned back to face me. ‘No, I can’t
recall any sort of fire that might have contained
chemicals and especially on board a ship. That
would have stuck in my mind. ’
Disappointment washed over me. I felt as
though Sam was my last hope and now I saw it
slip through my fingers like grains of sand. ‘It
was the year Tony Blair became leader of the
Labour Party so Sandy Ditton tells me,’ I said
rather cynically and bitterly.
‘Was it now. Not that interested in politics but
Sandy always was. More interested in that than
being a fire fighter. Stood for Parliament once.
1994. Tony Blair. Hang on.’ The gleam in his
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eyes made my heart leap. His telephone rang and
I had to curb my impatience.
I crossed to the photographs as Frensham
handled an enquiry about some bed linen. They
were much like Jack’s, taken on exercises, at
charity functions and visits to schools. There was
a watch photograph with the men posed in front
of an appliance. Why had one of Jack’s
photographs been missing? Could it have
provided a clue to my investigations? Had there
been anything in that empty frame in the first
place?
‘Sorry about that,’ Frensham said as he finished
his call. ‘Now where were we? Yes, there was a
fire on board a ship, of course. But the ship wasn’t
at sea; it was tied up in the port. That’s what
threw me until you said that about Tony Blair.’
I didn’t have a clue how that could have made
a difference and I didn’t much care as long as
Sam Frensham could help me. Was I at last about
to get a break? I resumed my seat and sat forward
eagerly.
‘I was pump man,’ Frensham continued,
evidently with relief. ‘If it is that fire then there
were two pumps. I was on the second one with
Jack and Tony. They went in wearing breathing
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apparatus but the first pump had almost
extinguished it.’
I leaned across the desk. ‘Can you recall what
was on fire?’
Frensham screwed up his face in concentration
but finally shook his head. ‘No, sorry. I didn’t go
on board. Thank goodness,’ he added with
feeling. ‘Neither Jack nor the others ever said
anything about it. It was a simple fire quickly
extinguished. I do remember though that the
ship wasn’t loaded. You think it might have been
that?’
‘I don’t suppose you remember the name of
the ship or the date?’ I asked without any real
hope, wondering if he would confirm it was 4th
July.
Frensham shook his head. ‘No. The only
reason I do remember it is because you triggered
my memory, Tony Blair, politics. I saw that MP
at the Port. William Bransbury, MP for
Portsmouth East. The one who was Tory and
went over to New Labour. You see that was my
constituency then and I voted for him and not
Ditton.’ He grinned.
‘What was Bransbury doing there?’ Steve’s words
came back to me. Was someone protecting him?
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‘I don’t know.’
‘It was daytime then?’
‘Yes, must have been.’
‘Hot or cold? Summer or winter?’
Sam thought for a while. ‘Summer.’
So it could have been on the 4th July.
Sam said, ‘I’m really sorry I can’t be of more
help.’
‘You’ve already been a great help. Look, if you
do remember anything more please let me know,
won’t you?’
Frensham waved away my gratitude. ‘If I can
help Jack, or any of the others, you only have to
ask. You will tell me how you get on, won’t you?
Come and stay for a couple of nights on the
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house, bring your wife.’
‘That’s really very kind of you,’ I said shaking
his hand, thinking I’d rather bring Jody. My last
image of her flashed through my mind. She
stirred more than desire in me but this time that
longing was tainted with unease. There was
something about our last exchange in the
dockyard that troubled me. I couldn’t say what
though.
As soon as I reached home I looked Bransbury
up on the Internet. He was born in 1958, the
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same year as Simon, educated at the local
grammar school and then took a degree in
Science at Oxford. Would Simon know him? It
was possible; they must have been at Oxford
together though not necessarily on the same
course. He was married with two children and
lived just outside of Portsmouth. His interests
were football, tennis and surprise, surprise, the
environment! There was no information on him
holding any surgeries but I could e-mail him
through the House of Commons website. I
decided to telephone first and ask for his office.
On the third attempt I got through to his
secretary. I asked if he could check Mr
Bransbury’s movements in 1994, which involved
a visit to the Portsmouth ferry port. I got a frosty
reception and was told to put my request in
writing with an explanation of why I needed such
information. I e-mailed him, wondering if I
would ever receive a reply.
There had to be some kind of record of MPs’
engagements but though I searched the Internet
I couldn’t find one. I found snippets of his visits
since becoming a minister in 2005 with details
of speeches and some photographs but nothing
for when he had been an MP in 1994. Then I
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recalled what Ditton had told me. Bransbury had
been a Conservative MP in 1994. I found articles
about him crossing the floor in 1997.
The local conservative party might be able to
help me with that visit to the port in 1994 if I
needed it. It could be pure coincidence. There
was someone else I could ask first though.
I telephoned Nigel Steep, hoping he would still
be in his office. It was gone six. He was.
‘I need a couple of favours,’ I said. ‘Can you
find out for me which shipping lines used the
port in the summer of 1994?’
‘Of course, and the other favour?’
‘William Bransbury, the Government minister,
visited the port in July 1994. Can you find out
when he was there and what he was doing?’
‘That might be harder to answer. I’ll get back
to you tomorrow.’
I spent some time staring at Jack’s postcard and
the message taken from the Gideons New
Testament and Psalms trying to see if I could
squeeze anything further from it.
His mouth is full of …deceit and fraud, he murder
the innocent.
That implied that Jack had discovered the
identity of the person who had placed something
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dangerous on that boat. Could he be referring
to Bransbury?
I re-read the postcard:
Look after ‘Rosie’ for me, Adam. You’re an accomplished
artist and a good friend. Happy Sailing!
Best Jack
4 July 1994
I couldn’t get Bransbury’s name from the letters
on the postcard. I pinned it back on the board
above my computer and desk and stepped back
inside the house from my studio. As soon as I
did I knew something was wrong. I strained my
ears but could hear only the gentle whirr of the
central heating boiler. Despite the silence I knew
someone was inside the house. My mind rapidly
replayed my conversation with Steve. He’d been
sent to warn me off. I had ignored the warning.
Had our conversation been bugged? Steve hadn’t
succeeded so now I had to be told in stronger
terms. Men had died because of this secret. Now
it was my turn.
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A shiver ran down my spine. My chest
tightened. I struggled to get my breath. My hands
began to tremble.
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Run away, said the coward’s voice inside me. I
wouldn’t. I crept forwards through the kitchen
into the hall. Empty. Something creaked behind
me. Someone was there. I made to turn round
when something struck me on the side of the
head.
It was pitch dark when I regained consciousness.
Boudicca was meowing like mad and pushing
up against my shoulder. I tried to move but a
sharp pain shot through my head. I must have
drifted off again. The next time I awoke my head
was still hurting but not quite so fiercely. Slowly,
testing the pain threshold with each movement,
I propped myself up. As I grew acclimatised to
the pain I began to be aware of my surroundings.
I was in the hall.
The phone rang. I let it. Whoever had attacked
me had let me live, why? I could so easily have
been finished off and my death made to look like
an accident, a house fire perhaps, or a fall down
the stairs?
I shuddered and hauled myself up. Wincing
and clutching my head I dragged myself into
the kitchen, almost blindly, wondering if I
would ever get full vision back. When I removed
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my hand there was blood on it. I rinsed it under
the tap and then poured myself a glass of water
and drank it thirstily. I felt sick and dizzy and
knew that I really ought to go to hospital but I
didn’t want to, besides I didn’t have the energy
and I couldn’t ride the bike, not in this
condition.
Staggering back to the lounge I sprawled myself
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on the sofa where again I drifted into
unconsciousness. I woke once and managed to
reach the downstairs cloakroom before being
violently sick. Then hauling myself back to the
lounge I threw myself once more on to the sofa.
If they came for me now I’d be an easy target.
The pain in my head was so intense that I
couldn’t give a damn if they did.
When I woke some time later there was a chink
of light coming through the bay window. I raised
myself up on an elbow; the pain wasn’t nearly
so severe and I could see. There was no double
vision. My mouth felt like someone had stuffed
it full of sandpaper and my hand rasped over my
unshaven chin. But I was alive and in one piece
and clearly it was morning.
I clawed my way up the stairs and shaved
carefully, staring at my haggard face in the mirror
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hardly recognising the man who stared back at
me. Then I stood under the shower until I felt
almost human again.
‘Who were they, Boudicca?’
She meowed at me as if to say how the hell
should I know, tucked her tail around her body
and laid her head down on the soft duvet of the
bed.
I coped with breakfast, and slowly and
miraculously my brain began to function. Yet,
no matter how well I exercised it, it could not
come up with a reason for why I had been
allowed to live. Maybe it had been a sheer fluke.
Maybe I had a thicker skull than the attacker had
anticipated.
I crossed to the studio. Before I reached it I
could see that the door was open. Cautiously I
moved forward and pushed my fingertips
against it, my heart knocking against my ribs
and steeling myself for another attack or sight
of the intruder.
Slowly the door swung open and I stepped
inside. But there was no intruder, only the chaos
of my wrecked studio. I picked my way through
the debris to my desk and stared up at my notice
board. Jack’s photograph, the postcard and the
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message from the Gideons New Testament and
Psalms had gone. Someone was wiping the trail
clean. Next time it would be me.
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CHAPTER 12
D
espite my pounding head I made my way
to Rosie’s. I couldn’t see anyone following
me but that didn’t mean to say they weren’t. If
Steve was right and it was MI5 or Special Branch
then I guessed I wouldn’t spot them, just as I
hadn’t heard or seen anyone enter the house.
They’d be too well trained for that. I wasn’t sure
how safe it was to stay in the house. Would they
try again when they saw I was alive and still
determined to get to the truth? I guessed so.
Rosie looked so bereft when she answered the
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door to me that it filled me with an even greater
resolve to find the bastards who had killed Jack
and who were having a pretty good go at finishing
me off. I gave her a hug and felt myself connect
with Jack.
‘Sally’s here,’ Rosie said.
At first I thought she meant her daughter but
my sluggish brain finally recalled that her
daughter was called Sarah, not Sally. I entered
the lounge to find Jack’s colleague from Red
Watch perched on one of the chairs. I was pleased
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to see her. If Rosie couldn’t help me perhaps Sally
could.
I said to Rosie, ‘I came to ask if you have Ian’s
telephone number and address.’
‘No, I don’t, sorry.’
‘I’ve got his number,’ Sally volunteered, as I
hoped she would. I smiled my thanks. As I copied
it from her mobile onto mine she said, ‘Why do
you want it?’
‘I want to talk to him about Jack.’
She thought for a moment then shrugged.
‘Perhaps it will help him.’
‘Do you know where he lives?’
‘St James’s Road, Locks Heath but don’t ask
me the number. I only know the house. It’s a
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PAULINE R OWSON 196
colour-washed bungalow in yellow. Poor Ian. He
feels so responsible.’ Sally flashed Rosie a look.
‘It wasn’t his fault,’ Rosie said. ‘It was just one
of those things.’
I didn’t comment on that. I addressed Sally,
‘What was Jack like on that day? Was he acting
differently in any way?’
Rosie flashed me a worried look.
Sally said, ‘He seemed a bit quieter than usual.’
‘Were you there when he swapped with Ian?’
‘No. I was making a coffee for DO Brookfield.’
Brookfield hadn’t mentioned he’d been on the
station the day Jack had been killed. Then a
terrible thought struck me. Brookfield could
have seen that tally board. Brookfield could have
been lying about those missing fire reports.
Brookfield could have killed Jack! No, that was
ridiculous. I couldn’t believe it. But perhaps he
had passed the information on to someone who
wasn’t so squeamish when it came to committing
murder.
‘What did Brookfield want?’ I asked lightly.
‘He came to see the station officer about
something, I don’t know what.’
Outside I rang Ian’s number and got his wife.
‘He went out early this morning for a walk and
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he’s not returned. I don’t know when he’ll be
back,’ she said after I had briefly explained that
I’d like to talk to him. She sounded tense, and I
could hear a child crying in the background.
‘I’ll call again later.’
I returned home, scouring the street for anyone
loitering or sitting in parked cars. No one.
Cautiously I let myself in listening for sounds,
only Boudicca padded down the stairs to greet
me.
My mobile rang making me jump. It was Nigel
Steep. ‘No joy on what the minister was doing
at the port, Adam, but I have got the names of
the shipping lines.’
There was only one that was no longer using
Portsmouth; Greys of London; all the others
were local firms and mainly imported fruit.
I powered up my laptop, connected to the
Internet and looked up Greys. They were a
privately owned company, which had begun
trading in the late 1960s with a number of small
coasters and barges supplying Portsmouth and
the Isle of Wight. Since then they had expanded
to mini bulk carriers, and had grown their fleet
of container ships to forty-six carrying grains,
fertilisers, steel, and minerals. They could also
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carry hazardous goods such as explosives and
ammunition.
I called them from my mobile phone, knowing
from the films I’d watched that landlines could
be tapped, and gave them the story that Albert
Honeyman was my uncle. I managed to get an
appointment with someone from human
resources for Friday. Tomorrow was Thursday,
and my father’s funeral. I decided I would stay
in London overnight, but not at father’s house. I
also decided I would say nothing to Faye.
I left a whole lot of food out for Boudicca,
which she’d probably gobble up by the end of
the day, and told her to go next door if she got
hungry. Then throwing some clothes and
toiletries into my sailing bag and collecting my
lap top computer, I climbed on to my bike and
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headed for Hayling Island, checking that no one
was following me. When I climbed on board my
boat moored in the marina at the northern end
of the island I didn’t think anyone had.
I telephoned Ian again but he still hadn’t
returned home. His wife sounded frantic. I didn’t
blame her. I was beginning to get worried myself.
Had Ian gone walk-about to try and escape his
depression? Had someone followed, or lured
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him away, because they didn’t want me finding
out why Jack had swapped duties with him? Or
had Ian disappeared because he was partly to
blame for leading Jack to his death? Had
someone paid Ian to swap with Jack on that
fateful Wednesday? Is that why he was so cut up?
Was it more than just sorrow? Was it a huge
burden of guilt that young Ian carried? If so, I
didn’t rate his poor wife’s chance of being
reunited with her husband.
Steve called me. I was surprised. ‘It’s Special
Branch,’ he said abruptly.
I gripped the phone tightly. ‘Do you know
why?’
‘I’ve already put my neck on the line for you,
Adam.’
‘I know and I’m grateful.’
‘I’d rather have you alive.’
‘You don’t mean they’d silence me
permanently.’ I rubbed the side of my head.
‘Of course not, but if they’re involved it means
that whoever they are after is a hell of lot nastier
and wouldn’t hesitate to kill you if they had to.’
‘Good job I’ve taken your advice then, Steve.’
‘You’ll let things alone?’ The relief in his voice
was palpable.
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‘Yes,’ I lied.
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‘Thank God for that. Go away for a few days.’
‘I will. Thanks, Steve.’
I rang off.
I had done a fair bit of sailing in the dark but
in the summer rather than winter. Still that
couldn’t be helped now. I wasn’t going to risk
staying in the marina. That call to my mobile
could be traced. Special Branch would know
where I was. I wanted to believe Steve when he
said they wouldn’t kill me but I wasn’t going to
take any chances. And if they knew maybe
whoever they were after would also know my
whereabouts.
I hadn’t asked Steve how he had found out it
was Special Branch because I wasn’t sure he
would tell me the truth. As I motored slowly out
of Northney Marina I couldn’t quite believe that
he had discovered it for himself. Someone had
told him. Just like they had told him to make the
call. They wanted to know where I was. Tonight
I would elude them but tomorrow was a very
different matter. They would be able to find me
easily because tomorrow I would be at my
father’s funeral in London.
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The cremation was short. No lingering speeches,
no memorial sermons. I had Simon to thank for
that. During it my mind had wandered back to
my conversation with Ian’s wife that morning.
He hadn’t returned home. She’d reported his
disappearance to the police. Would they connect
it with Jack’s death? I guessed only in the fact
that Ian was depressed about it and felt guilty.
I glanced around the faded lounge of my
father’s Belgravia house, trying to stifle a yawn
after a fitful night’s sleep on the boat. I had picked
up a buoy in the Emsworth channel and returned
to the marina in the morning to shower and
collect my motorbike. Perhaps I had over reacted
because there was no one lurking around the
marina that looked suspicious and, as far as I
could tell, no one had followed me to London.
I had checked my phone for messages before
the service. Jody had called me. She sounded
anxious. My heart tugged at the sound of her
voice enquiring how I was and what I was doing.
It took a great deal of effort to resist calling her
back. I desperately wanted to. I told myself it
would only put her in danger. If Special Branch
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could locate where I was calling from then maybe
they could locate whom I was calling?
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‘It’s Adam, isn’t it?’
I spun round to find a tall, elegantly dressed
man with a leonine sweep of grey hair sleeked
back from a distinguished looking face. He
looked familiar but I couldn’t place him.
‘Tim Davenham. I was at Oxford with Simon.’
‘Of course.’ I took his hand and returned the
pressure.
‘Simon tells me you’re an artist.’
‘Yes.’
‘And a successful one by all accounts. Your
father would have been proud.’
I doubt it, I thought, scrutinising Davenham
for signs of irony. He showed none but I had a
feeling he was sneering at me. Maybe it was my
inferiority complex.
Across the shabby, crowded room Faye was
talking to Simon. She laughed at something he
said, Simon smiled. He was at his most
charming. They’d hit it off immediately.
‘She’s very attractive,’ Davenham went on,
following my gaze. ‘But Simon always did have
an eye for a pretty girl.’
Before I could reply he’d excused himself. I
watched him join them. I couldn’t recall
Davenham that well from Simon’s past. I had
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only a vague recollection of a clever, handsome
man who attracted women like a magnet. Simon
hadn’t done too badly for himself either I seemed
to remember.
I looked at Faye as though seeing her for the
first time. She had managed to get herself her a
little black dress that hugged her shapely but
slender figure and showed off her long legs, clad
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in black stockings. She was at her most seductive
in the hope, I suspected, of wheedling some of
father’s inheritance from Simon. Judging by
Simon’s reaction to her I didn’t think she’d have
much difficulty. I saw the point of Davenham’s
remarks. He had wanted to rub my face in it. A
month ago I might have reacted. A year ago I
would have been upset, devastated even, but
now? I didn’t really care. When had I stopped
loving Faye?
‘They seem to be getting on well, don’t they?’
I turned to find Harriet beside me. Her
shapeless figure was clothed in a drab black dress.
Her limp blonde hair hung around a lined face
with skin that was dull and eyes that were sad. It
was as if she had long ago forgotten how to smile.
It made me think of the last time I’d laughed
and again I thought of Alison. She’d had that
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PAULINE R OWSON 204
capacity to make the world seem bright. Nothing
could dampen her wild spirit or her optimism.
To her life had been living on the crest of the
wave and never rolling on to the shore. Jody
made me feel like that.
‘I’m sorry about the will, Adam,’ Harriet said,
breaking through my thoughts. ‘I told Simon he
should share it with you, or at least see that you’re
all right but…’ She took a nervous sip from her
glass.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said dismissively, meaning it. I
hadn’t yet had the chance to slip into my father’s
study and extract my file.
Davenham looked across at me. Simon and
Faye followed his glance.
‘I didn’t expect to see so many people,’ I said,
feeling angry and averting my eyes.
‘The obituaries in The Daily Telegraph and The
Times account for that,’ Harriet replied. ‘I
received a lot of calls from former colleagues and
members of the Royal Society of Chemistry as a
result. Your father was quite famous.’
Yes, I supposed he was. In the 1950s Lawrence
Greene had discovered a compound that had had
huge commercial ramifications in the
manufacture of processed foodstuffs. This house
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IN C OLD D AYLIGHT 205
and the ones in Cornwall and Wales had been
bought on the proceeds of it and Simon and I
educated at an expensive public school that I
loathed and at Oxford, where my life had
changed. Now only this house was left. What
had happened to the proceeds of the other
properties? Were they in the coffers waiting for
Simon to inherit?
‘You’ll sell the house?’ I said.
‘Yes, Simon’s already had it valued but we can’t
really do anything until after probate. I’m sure
Simon would let you have something; there are
some good paintings here.’
Harriet was right, there were some good
paintings, but I didn’t want anything to remind
me of this place or my father. My mother’s
paintings had all been sold a long time ago.
‘Do you know if Simon’s been through the rest
of Father’s papers yet?’
‘No, you’ll have to ask him. I don’t think he’s
had much time what with the business. It’s all
been rather hectic.’
‘Of course.’ The American deal . Had Simon
clinched it?
The sound of Faye’s laughter drew my
attention for a moment, but when I looked back
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at Harriet her unguarded expression took me by
surprise. I wondered how many affairs my
brother had conducted during their marriage.
I turned back to look at Faye as Harriet saw
her, another of Simon’s conquests. Faye was
clearly flirting with him and enjoying it but she
was in control, or so I told myself. I thought of
Stewart, her boss, and all the clients she
entertained. I thought of Graham Johnson, the
solicitor, I had no reason to think that Faye had
been unfaithful, but in my gut I knew she had
been.
‘How are the children?’ I turned my back on
Faye. For a moment the light stole into Harriet’s
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eyes.
‘William’s doing very well at boarding school,
but I miss him so much.’
‘And Daisy? Didn’t Simon say she was away at
school too?’
‘If that’s what you want to call it.’
I was shocked by the bitterness in her voice.
She saw that she had given herself away and
blushed furiously whilst trying to bury her face
in her glass.
‘You don’t like her school?’ I coaxed.
‘No. She was better off living at home with us
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and going to our local school but Simon
disagreed and you know Simon he always gets
his way,’ she said bitterly.
‘What does Daisy think?’ I saw her startled
expression.
‘Daisy doesn’t think; well, not like you and me.’
‘Of course she’s only a child.’
She looked puzzled. ‘You don’t know, do you?
Simon hasn’t told you. He wouldn’t. That’s why
he’s sent her away to that special school. He
doesn’t want to be reminded of imperfection.
Daisy has what they call special needs. She’s
handicapped.’
‘I had no idea, Harriet. I’m sorry.’
‘Yes, so is Simon.’
Her words wrenched at my heart. ‘Perhaps
the money will help you have Daisy home
again,’ I said gently, but Harriet was shaking her
head.
‘It’s not about money, is it, Adam? Not where
Daisy’s concerned.’
No. It wasn’t. Harriet was called away. It was
getting late and already dark. Time to get that
file. I doubted if Faye would even notice if I
slipped away. Before I could reach the study,
however, a tiny woman in her sixties, with grey
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waved hair, a shrewd, sharp face, lively eyes and
a cockney accent waylaid me.
‘You must be the other brother. Adam, isn’t it?
I’m Mrs Withers, your father’s housekeeper. I’m
sorry about your Dad. He was a fine man.’
I simply nodded.
‘Difficult time for you, and Dr Greene,
especially him being so fond of his father.’
That was news to me. I mumbled something
but she didn’t seem to hear. Mrs Withers charged
on regardless.
‘Not a week has gone past these last six months
without Dr Greene looking in and often staying
overnight.’
My ears pricked up. Simon had never done a
single thing in his life out of kindness so why
start now? But I knew the reason. Money.
‘I know you and he didn’t hit it off,’ she swept
on. ‘Not that Dr Greene ever said much about
it and Dr Greene, sorry, your father that is, never
so much as spoke of you. I didn’t know there
was another son until your brother told me after
your father’s stroke. But I expect it was difficult
for you to come and see him, being estranged
so to speak.’ She sighed heavily. ‘Still, he
wouldn’t have known who you were even if you
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had come, not these last few months anyway.’
‘What did you say?’ This was news to me. Why
hadn’t Simon told me that father had been
unwell for some time? But then what right had I
to that information? I had chosen to cut myself
off from my family.
‘Sad, isn’t it, when you think of the fine brain
he had. Makes you wonder. Life can be so cruel,
don’t you agree?’
‘I’m not sure I understand you.’
‘Dementia,’ she nodded sagely, as if an expert
on the topic. ‘Poor man didn’t know who I was
half the time, let alone your brother. Patience of
a saint that man. Used to sit with him in his study
for hours. I’m sorry your dad’s gone, but in a
way it was a mercy wasn’t it, being taken so
quickly. He would have gone into a home soon
and they just eat away at the money, don’t they?’
Oh, yes, don’t they, I thought. And Simon
wouldn’t want that being the sole benefactor of
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Father’s considerable will. When had my father
cut me out of his will? After Alison and Oxford?
After my breakdown? After I had walked out of
this house fifteen years go? Or was it more recent,
such as in the last six months during which time
Simon had worked on father to change his will.
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Damn. I should have stayed longer the first time
I’d returned to the house with Simon. I could
have seen then when the will was dated and I
could have extracted my file.
I pushed against the study door and stepped
inside. Stretching out my right hand I flicked on
the overhead light and gazed around. My eyes
fell on the battered mahogany desk in front of
the french windows. I recalled standing before
it as a boy, trembling with fear. I remembered
that day I had been in here when I shouldn’t have
been. I can’t remember why, but I had sneaked
in and then been trapped as my mother and father
had entered. Hiding behind the curtains I had
heard him humiliate her with his harsh words
and cruel, sarcastic tongue. There were too many
ghosts here and in this house and the sooner I
got that file, the sooner I could say goodbye to
the place forever.
The room was clammy. I couldn’t quite steel
myself to sit at Father’s desk so instead leant over
to search the drawers. They weren’t locked but
there was nothing of any interest in them except
a key, which I removed and crossed to the four-
drawer grey and scratched filing cabinet in the
far corner of the room. The key opened it and
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methodically I went through its contents. It
contained the usual papers, household insurance
and receipts. Then, in the bottom drawer, I found
what I had been looking for, a buff-coloured
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folder that bore the name of the clinic I’d
attended after my breakdown. If Simon had got
this far then he hadn’t thought the contents of
sufficient interest to remove.
I extracted the folder and locked it in the box
on the back of my motorbike. Then returning
to the house I found Faye.
‘I’m heading home now,’ I lied.
‘All right.’ She didn’t protest or plead with me
to stay.
‘Are you staying in town tonight?’
‘You know I am.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow night.’
Maybe Faye would find out tonight what had
happened to me at Oxford, if not from
Davenham then from Simon. I didn’t care. I
knew the time was fast approaching when it
would come into the open anyway, but not, I
hoped, before I found out who had killed Jack
and Ben Lydeway. I was pinning a great deal on
this meeting with Greys tomorrow.
I booked myself into a bed and breakfast not
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PAULINE R OWSON 212
far from Victoria Station. It was small, cheap and
rather nondescript but it was clean. I threw my
bag on the bed, along with my helmet and
gauntlets and returned to the bike. I lifted open
the box and stared inside it horrified. It was
empty. The file had gone.
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CHAPTER 13
I
rode slowly along the Embankment. The
Thames looked sludgy and lethargic,
gunmetal grey in the dull morning with only the
odd splash of colour caused by the riverboats.
Across the river I could see the London Eye
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revolving slowly. Weaving my way through the
stop go traffic I thought about that missing file,
much as I had thought about it for most of the
night. Who had taken it and when? I knew why,
to use it against me.
The police may have released me in connection
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with Ben’s death but that didn’t mean they
wouldn’t arrest me if they felt they had more
evidence. I wasn’t absolutely sure what the
psychiatrist reports would say about me, having
never read them, I only wish I had, but I guessed
it would make for interesting reading: my self
recriminations at Alison’s death, my lack of
memory. The police could argue that I killed Ben
whilst suffering from a black-out.
Who had taken it? Had someone been
watching the house, seen me come out with a
file, guessed that its contents might be useful and
then stolen it? That seemed unlikely. Even if
whoever it was knew there was a file
documenting my breakdown after Alison’s death
how would they have known my father had it
and that it would be the one I was carrying. If
the police, or Special Branch, wanted
information on me surely they could get it simply
by obtaining a warrant and taking it from the
clinic?
It had to be someone inside the house: one of
the guests at the wake and the most likely
candidate was Simon. Perhaps Simon had seen
me take the file and had been afraid it contained
something that would ruin his chances of
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inheriting Father’s estate? Or perhaps he’d taken
it to discredit or, worse, blackmail me if I ever
decided to contest the will? But if that were so
then Simon would have taken it before now.
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He’d had ample opportunity.
My head was aching with so many thoughts
whirring around inside it as I wound my way
past the church of St Clement Danes and the
old nursery rhyme popped into my head, ‘Oranges
and lemons say the bells of St Clement’s.’ When I
reached the bit about the chopper coming to
chop off my head, I shivered and looked behind
me. I couldn’t see anyone following me but I
had the feeling they were. Someone knew every
step I took.
I moved through Fleet Street and up Ludgate
Hill. The traffic was heavier than I had
anticipated. As I halted at the traffic lights I
watched a flock of starlings rise above the great
dome of St Paul’s Cathedral. I envied them their
freedom. The responsibility of finishing Jack’s
quest weighed heavily on my shoulders. But I
had to continue with it, no matter where it took
me.
At last I turned into Monument Street and then
Lower Thames Street where I found Greys
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Shipping. After waiting ten minutes in the
spacious reception area, where I studied rather
splendid models of ships owned by Greys, I was
shown up in a lift to an office on the third floor
by a young, very bored-looking girl who did
nothing but chew gum. The woman who greeted
me in a large office was very different. She was
confident and friendly, with hair the colour of a
blackbird’s wing and startlingly blue eyes.
‘I would like to trace some of my uncle’s ex-
colleagues to let them know about his death and
the funeral arrangements,’ I said, repeating the
lie I’d told her secretary on the telephone in order
to get the appointment. I felt uncomfortable at
deceiving her but I had no choice.
‘Of course.’ She picked up a file from the table
in front of her and resting it on her lap she opened
it and extracted a piece of paper. ‘I’ve prepared a
list of the personnel who sailed with your uncle
during his time with the company from 1990 to
1994.’
I was surprised at her efficiency, but I shouldn’t
have been after seeing her office. It was so orderly
that I felt slightly scruffy sitting in it with my
black leather jacket, leggings and heavy boots.
I quickly scanned the names on the list. There
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were only a half a dozen. ‘I thought there would
be more than this?’
She smiled. ‘There are never that many crew
members on a container ship. There is so much
technology now, and on the size of ship that Mr
Honeyman sailed the maximum crew would
only have been six. Of course since your uncle
sailed with us, sadly some of the crew have died.’
And I’d liked to know from what. I glanced
down at the list and saw, with interest, that one
of the men lived less than a mile from Albert
Honeyman’s nursing home. It was the Master,
Captain Frank Rutland.
‘There is something else that you might be able
to help me with, Miss Rogers. Do you know if
there was ever a fire on board one of the ships in
which my uncle was serving?’
She looked surprised at the question but she
didn’t probe me about it. She said, ‘I don’t think
so but I can check for you.’ She crossed to her
desk, her heels clicking on the wooden floor, and
began to tap into her computer.
I waited with baited breath glimpsing only
briefly at the paintings on the wall of sailing
barges on the Thames in the 19 th century. I willed
her to find something. Surely I hadn’t come all
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PAULINE R OWSON 218
this way for nothing. No file and no fire.
It appeared I had.
‘There’s no record of any fire on any of our
ships, Mr Greene.’
I felt more than disappointed, I felt desperate.
‘Could there have been a fire that wasn’t
reported?’ I asked hopefully. I registered her
surprise.
‘I doubt it. A fire on board a ship is very serious;
even if it wasn’t carrying any cargo the captain
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would still have to report it.’
How could there be nothing? I had to be right,
but I didn’t think Miss Rogers was lying. I had
wasted my time and my hopes. In the process I
had possibly put myself in danger of being
arrested for Ben’s death when whoever had
stolen my file decided to give it to the police.
I thanked her with little enthusiasm. There was
only one more place to go and that was to Captain
Frank Rutland. If he couldn’t help me I really
didn’t know what to do next.
The Christmas traffic was a nightmare. As I
weaved my way through Convent Garden I
thought of Faye. I had never been to her office
and I wasn’t about to go there now. If she knew
I had stayed in London, it would only give her
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more ammunition about moving here. Perhaps
if I did I might save my marriage. Was it a sacrifice
worth making?
I pulled up at the lights and gazed across the
crowded street. It was as if my thoughts had
conjured her up. There she was and she wasn’t
alone. Faye threw back her head and laughed at
something Simon said. He smiled down at her.
I could see so much in that smile. I watched them
duck into a restaurant, the traffic began to move,
a car hooted angrily at me and I let in the clutch
and pulled away.
It was getting dark by the time I reached Hayling
Island. At the sign to the boatyard I indicated
left and turned into a road that gave way to a
track. It wound its way past two Nissen huts,
left over from the Second World War, until it
opened up into a boatyard. A handful of boats
were resting up for the winter in front of the
boatsheds on my right and there were a long row
of masts stacked above each other on their side.
I asked one of the workmen where I could find
Frank Rutland’s boat, and eventually, three
people later, managed to track it down. It was
lying at the end of the last pontoon.
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It was exposed here with nothing ahead but
the mud of low tide and the sea. Beyond, across
Chichester Harbour, was the flat landscape of
Thorney Island, once used by the Royal Air Force
in the war and where the army still had a base.
Lights blinked at me in the distance. The wind
cut across the channel. The day had grown
colder; even the seagulls seemed to have fallen
silent as if in anticipation of a storm; I could see
them squatting on their narrow legs in the mud
facing into the southwest wind. I felt the first
lean spits of rain.
I made my way down the rickety pontoon
glancing at the variety of boats until I came to
Rutland’s. It was older than most of the others, a
classic though, a Hillyard 8 ton 30-footer. She
was a beauty, or rather had been in her day. It
was clear from her neglected air and rotting
timbers that those days had long gone, but with
a little care and a lot of money she would still be
sailing when many modern boats had been
consigned to the scrap heap. The hull needed
cleaning but she still looked sound.
I called out whilst running my eye over the
weathered mahogany deck. Hillyards were solid
boats built to last and this one looked as though
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it had been around for the last forty years or
more. It was resting on the mud of low tide. It
looked much lived in and used with its off-white
sails reefed down and looped around the boom.
A rusting, but still operational bicycle was propped
up on the foredeck along with a battered striped
deckchair of the kind that used to be seen along
the promenade in Southsea occupied by old ladies
in crimpolene suits and gents with their trousers
rolled up and knotted hankies on their heads.
I called again but still got no reply. I groaned. I
hadn’t come all this way just to find the guy out.
Perhaps Rutland didn’t want to see anyone? But
if Rutland had gone out then perhaps I could
wait for his return.
I climbed on board. The hatchway was open
and, calling out, I began to climb below when
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suddenly I drew up, staring in disbelief and
horror at the sight that greeted me. Lying in front
of me was a skeletal man of about seventy, with
grey frizzled hair and a beard, dressed in a pair
of old navy jogging pants and a dirty T-shirt.
There was blood around his nose and mouth,
his lips were blue and his scrawny neck was livid
with bruises where someone had squeezed the
breath from him.
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Suddenly, pressing on my eyeballs was the
memory of another dead body. I felt a rush of air
and heard a thump, a sickening crack; eyes were
staring wide and blood was trickling from the
smashed skull until it reached my foot. Seeing
Rutland had brought back every detail of Alison’s
death. Now I remembered it exactly. I had rowed
with Alison and then had left the party. As I was
walking away she had fallen out of the window
and landed right in front of me. I could see the
blue dress she was wearing: it had rumpled up
to her knees; one sandal was still on, her other
foot was bare. I saw the expression on her face
and the blood trickling from her mouth.
Forget Alison. Forget what had happened
fifteen years ago, I urged myself. Think of now.
I had to get away. I stumbled up the gangway
trying to get my breath; my legs trembled so
much that they could barely carry me. Christ,
Rutland murdered! Who the hell…
I glanced nervously over my shoulder. They
had killed Ben Lydeway, Honeyman and now
Rutland. Whoever had killed these men could
be watching me now.
I climbed on to the bike and roared away. I
knew I should have stayed and reported it to the
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police but that would mean my chances of
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solving Jack’s murder would be nil.
I glanced back over my shoulder as I reached
the main road. There was no one following me.
The next time the attack on me might be fatal.
Either that, or the police would come to ask me
questions. Miss Rogers would confirm she had
given me Rutland’s name and address, the three
men in the boatyard I asked directions from
would confirm I was seeking Rutland and that,
with Ben’s murder, would give them enough to
detain me.
If I explained, surely they would believe me?
Would they though? Even if they believed me,
and they knew me to be innocent, someone more
powerful didn’t want me on the loose sniffing
around and discovering a secret so big that it had
already resulted in the deaths of three men, four,
if you counted Jack. I had no alibi, a possible
motive and suspicious behaviour. My heart was
heavy as I climbed on board my boat. Danger
was closing in on me. My enquiries were going
nowhere.
‘For Christ sake, Jack,’ I cried, ‘Give me a break,
a sign, anything. I have to get to the truth and
soon before it disappears for ever.’
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I found a bottle of whisky and the hot liquid
slid down my throat, warming me.
When would Rutland’s body be discovered?
Tonight? Tomorrow? Next week? I might have
believed next week or next month if it wasn’t
for the fact I was convinced someone wanted to
frame me for his murder just as they had tried to
frame me for Ben’s. An anonymous telephone
call to the police would be all that it would take.
The police would need to examine the body and
then question people and that all took time. They
would test for DNA on Rutland’s body – it
wouldn’t match mine – but I might have left a
trace of DNA by simply being on the boat, and I
would certainly have left my fingerprints. The
police would match these with the ones they’d
already taken from me after Ben’s murder and
bingo!
I guessed I had a couple of day’s grace, maybe
even a few, if I was very lucky. In that time I had
to get to the truth. But with Rutland dead how
could I?
I stretched out on the bunk and let my mind
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trawl back through the events of the last couple
of weeks. I came to no new conclusions, so I
thought back to before Jack was killed. Had there
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been anything that he’d done or said to me that
could give me any clues? Apart from that last
vague conversation, when he had told me he was
being followed, there was nothing. I thought
about the message on the postcard. Whoever had
taken the postcard hadn’t erased the message
from my mind:
Look after ‘Rosie’ for me, Adam. You’re an accomplished
artist and a good friend. Happy Sailing!
Best Jack
4 July 1994
Jack’s message had led me to the Gideons New
Testament and Psalms and to a possible fire on
4th July 1994, which Sam Frensham had recalled
but Greys hadn’t documented. Could Sam have
been mistaken? No. I thought it far more likely
that Rutland, and possibly Honeyman, had
hushed it up because whatever had been on fire
on board their ship had contained something
hazardous. Happy Sailing!
‘Here’s to you Jack. I shall think of you every
time I sail in her.’ I lifted my whisky to toast him
when I paused. Happy Sailing! Why had Jack
given the word ‘sailing’ a capital S and an
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exclamation mark…This had been Jack’s boat.
Had he…Suddenly my heart was pounding.
Could Jack have possibly got on board? Had Jack
kept or found a spare key? Had he left a message
for me here? Had he hidden his computer disks
and diary on Tide Mark?
I leapt up and with the water slapping against
the sides of the yacht, hardly daring to hope, I
began my search.
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CHAPTER 14
I
found the computer disk stowed away inside
the sail cover under one of the bunks. There
was no label on it, but I didn’t need any label to
know what it might contain.
I powered up my laptop, thanking the heavens
that I had brought it with me. I inserted the disk.
The rain was hammering on the boat and the
wind howling around it. My pulse was racing.
Was I at last about to get to the truth?
It was written as a diary. With my quickening
heartbeat I began to read Jack’s account of his
investigations.
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31 October
It’s too much of a coincidence that Vic, Scott,
Duggie, Tony and now me should all contract
cancer; it must have been from a job we’d all been
on. Before we had the new flash hoods our ears
had been exposed to fire. It was the only way we
could tell how hot the fire was and if we should
get out whilst we still could. Those hoods were
abolished late in 1994, so the fire that has caused
our cancer must have been before that – but how
long before it?
There were more entries as Jack doggedly traced
fires involving chemicals, and eliminated them
matching the incident with the manning reports.
I skipped through the entries until 7 th November.
Eureka! There it was.
I’ve finally managed to trace the fire. It has to be
this one. We all attended it. It was a small fire on
board the Mary Jane; she was tied up in port. It
was 4 July 1994. The incident report was filed by
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Des Brookfield.
It figured. Brookfield had done well for himself
over the years, big house, expensive motor yacht,
exotic holidays abroad and kids in private
education. Perhaps he didn’t know the full extent
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of what had been on that ship but he had been
paid to keep silent. His mouth is full of …deceit and
fraud, he murder the innocent. This was who Jack
meant. Brookfield had lied about those fire
reports being sent away for computerisation. I
couldn’t believe that Brookfield had killed Jack;
he must have told the killer that Jack had swapped
duty with Ian. Perhaps Brookfield had even
commanded Ian to swap. I read on.
The Third Officer was on watch, he was the only
person onboard at the time and he called us out,
but by the time we got there he’d almost
extinguished the fire. The ship’s captain was
Frank Rutland and the chief officer Albert
Honeyman.
I skimmed down the rest of Jack’s diary until I
reached the following entry.
There was nothing to indicate that there was any
hazardous cargo on board, in fact there was no
cargo, not in the hold at least. The fire had been
below in a packing case. But what was in that
case? There was nothing to warn us that its
contents might be lethal. But it must have been.
It has to be that fire, nothing else matches up. I
need to talk to Honeyman and I’ve traced him to
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the Stella Hardlay Nursing Home, quite by
accident. I was on secondment to Havant when
we had a call-out. Someone was stuck in the lift
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and there was Honeyman. He didn’t want to say
anything at first but I pushed him, it didn’t take
much. Perhaps he wanted to end his days with a
clear conscience? He told me he’d always had his
suspicions over what they had been carrying
especially when the third officer had died of
cancer not long after the fire.
I read on as Jack documented that Honeyman
believed they were carrying illegal cargo on each
trip but didn’t think it was his business to raise it
with the captain. All he knew was that it didn’t
go through any forwarding agency and wasn’t
packaged like the rest of the cargo, in a container.
It came on board separately, ready packed, and
Rutland always oversaw its lading.
Jack managed to track down Rutland on 1 st
December.
Called on Rutland. He lives onboard his boat on
Hayling. I could see as soon as I arrived that he
knew why I’d come. He said he wondered how
long it would take for someone to find out. He
confirmed that he had been well paid to carry
the small cargo on each trip. Someone would
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arrange to take it off when the ship docked at
Calais. All Rutland had to do was transport it no
questions asked. Shortly after the fire, the cargo
stopped coming aboard. I asked Rutland who had
paid him, he said he didn’t know. He was lying. I
asked where the cargo had come from but all he
would say was a laboratory on Salisbury Plain. It
made me think of the RAF base there, but when
I asked Rutland he would neither confirm nor
deny it. Will call on them tomorrow. I’m almost
there, near the truth. I’m being followed though
and I am sure that my telephone has been tapped.
I will store this on disk and leave it on my old
boat.
Jack’s next message drew me up with a sharp
intake of breath.
Adam, if you’re reading this now then I’m
probably dead. I’ve written you a coded message,
on a postcard, which I shall post tomorrow. I
know you don’t like puzzles but I have every
confidence you’ll work it out. I’m sorry to have
burdened you with this, but there is no one else
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I can trust. I’ve enjoyed every minute of our
friendship and I know I can rely on you to take
care of my darling Rosie. How much you tell her
about this I will leave to you. Here’s hoping you
get to the truth and expose the bastard who is
behind this. If you don’t, and you stumble on
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this disk in months, or even years to come, then
please don’t feel guilty. Maybe it is for the best.
Good luck mate, and I hope I won’t be seeing
you soon.
The next day Jack was dead. My eyes were
stinging and my heart felt so heavy that I could
barely breathe. I picked up the whisky bottle and
took a long pull at it. I waited for the firewater to
kick-start my heart.
I read everything through again before
switching off the computer and stowing the disk
back where I had found it. Now I find the
laboratory. But how? Perhaps it didn’t exist
anymore. Rutland had told Jack that the cargo
had stopped coming on board soon after the fire,
maybe the laboratory had closed down.
If it was at the Royal Air Force base and the
laboratory had been connected with defence then
it will be protected under the Official Secrets
Act. That made some sense of all the killings.
Special Branch would be keen to hush it up.
Could Simon’s contacts at the Royal Society
of Chemistry help? It was a thought and one
which led me to think of Faye and Simon
together. I took a risk and called Faye but she
didn’t answer. I left a message on her answer
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machine saying I would be away painting for a
few days. My next call was to Simon but he
wasn’t answering either. I didn’t leave a message.
Neither did I call Jody, though I wanted to.
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Tomorrow I would tackle Brookfield.
‘Adam!’ Brookfield opened the door of his
detached house. He glanced at his watch. I was
damned if I was going to apologise for disturbing
him at eight o’clock on a Saturday morning.
‘A fire on board a ship on 4 th July 1994, you
filed the incident report,’ I said tersely. I had
hardly slept. I didn’t have much time to get to
the truth and I didn’t like Brookfield.
Brookfield looked taken aback. ‘Why do you
want to know about that?’
‘What was in that packing case, Des?’
‘I can’t remember every fire.’
‘I think you’ll remember this one. Who told
you to say the incident report was missing?’
Brookfield looked genuinely puzzled. ‘No one.
They’ve been sent –’
‘For computerisation.’ I studied Brookfield’s
face and could see that he was telling the truth.
Was I wrong? Was Brookfield innocent? His
mouth is full of …deceit and fraud.
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‘Why did you tell Ian to swap duty with Jack?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘You were on the station that morning.’
‘I didn’t even speak to Ian or Jack. Look, what
is all this?’ Brookfield glanced nervously over his
shoulder.
‘Who did you tell their tallies had been
switched over?’
‘For Christ’s sake, Adam, what are you talking
about?’
‘Who is it, Des?’ A woman’s voice called out.
‘Just someone from the fire station,’ Brookfield
lied, stepping into the large front garden and
closing the door to behind him.
I said, ‘I’m talking about a fire on board a ship
that has cost the lives of five fire fighters, not to
mention two old men and possibly Ian. I think
it’s about time you told the truth about the Mary
Jane.’ At last I’d scored a direct hit. Brookfield’s
face paled.
He began walking away from the house
towards the street where I had parked my
bike.
He ran a hand through his thick dark hair and
shifted nervously. ‘I do remember the fire now
but only because Mary Jane was my
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grandmother’s name. I don’t know what you
mean about it causing deaths.’
‘What happened at that fire?’
‘I don’t know. I wasn’t there.’
‘But you filed the report.’
‘I did but I didn’t go to it. I took a leave date. I
didn’t have any owing so I bought one off Colin
Woodhall; I paid him to cover for me. I didn’t
want anyone to know I wasn’t on duty.’
I could guess why. Brookfield had always had
a reputation as a lady’s man. He had been with a
woman, conducting one of his affairs.
Brookfield said, ‘Colin gave me the details and
wrote the report and I signed it.’
I had been wrong. Brookfield wasn’t involved.
‘And he didn’t hint there was anything unusual
about the fire?’
‘As far as he was concerned it was just a small
and very straightforward fire.’
It seemed there was nothing more I could get
from Brookfield.
‘Aren’t you going to tell me what’s going on?’
Brookfield called out, as I walked away.
‘Forget I asked. And I’ll forget you signed that
incident report.’
I climbed on to my bike. Brookfield couldn’t
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lead me to that laboratory which meant I’d have
to ask Simon. Who he didn’t know involved in
research wasn’t worth knowing. I quickly risked
checking my messages. There was nothing from
Faye. I hadn’t really expected anything and I
wasn’t going to phone home in case my phone
was tapped.
I swung the bike out of the small cul de sac on
to the road that led across the top of Portsdown
Hill. Below me, to my left the city of Portsmouth
and Hayling Island lay spread out in the grey
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morning light. My mobile rang. I had forgotten
to switch it off. I pulled into the viewing spot
and picnic area. There were two other cars parked
but no occupants. Behind me the burger van was
closed.
It was Jody.
‘I’ve got some news for you,’ she said, slightly
breathlessly.
‘Jody, I told you not to ask around.’
‘I know but this is important. I know the name
of the ship that was on fire. One of the pilots
recalled it.’
‘He’s got a good memory,’ I said, surprised.
‘I mentioned to him about William Bransbury,
the Minister, being at the port and that’s how he
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recalled it. The ship was called the Mary Jane.’
‘I know.’
‘How?’
‘Jack left me a message.’
‘Where?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I need to find out what was
on that ship.’
‘Didn’t Jack say?’
‘No, only that he discovered it was chemicals
from a laboratory somewhere on Salisbury Plain.’
‘Christ! How did he discover that?’
‘It’s a long story.’
There was a pause before she said. ‘What are
you going to do now?’
‘I’m going to find out who ran that laboratory.’
‘How?’
‘I’m going to ask my brother, Simon. He’s a
research scientist. If anyone can tell me it’s
Simon.’
‘I want to help.’
‘No,’ I said firmly.
There was a pause before she said, ‘You will
call me, won’t you?’
I promised I would. As I was about to pull out
of the lay-by I glanced in my mirror and was
surprised to see Motcombe, the gangly fire
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fighter from Red Watch, emerge from one of the
footpaths and head towards a dark blue car. Still,
there was no reason why he shouldn’t be here.
Perhaps he lived nearby and liked a walk in the
mornings. Perhaps he had a dog. I watched him
climb into the car. No dog followed. I hesitated
wondering whether or not to speak to him; did
he have any more information on Ian?
I was about to turn back when he answered
his mobile phone. I recalled that Red Watch were
on days. Motcombe must have a day off. I
decided that Ian couldn’t help me now, so it was
pointless talking to Motcombe. I swung out of
the lay-by and headed for Bath.
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CHAPTER 15
H
arriet opened the door to me. She looked
tired and she had been crying.
‘Where’s Simon?’
‘He’s at work.’
‘I need the address, Harriet.’
‘Of course,’ she hesitated. ‘Adam, can I talk to
you for a moment.’
I wanted to refuse, time was ticking away, but
the pleading in her eyes prevented me and I
found myself following her down the hall and
into a large and expensively equipped kitchen at
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the back of the house overlooking a splendid
garden that led down to the canal.
‘Simon’s in trouble.’
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My first thoughts were of Father. Had someone
discovered Simon had pushed him down the
stairs? But no, that was ridiculous. I had no proof
of that. ‘What kind of trouble?’
‘He’s… well… He’s got himself into terrible
debt. William’s school called me this morning.
They said that we haven’t paid the fees for almost
six months so I …’ She took a deep breath. ‘I
broke into Simon’s desk, and there are so many
unpaid bills and his bank account is horrendously
in arrears. There are threatening letters too and
it seems his business is in trouble.’
‘It should be out of it soon; he’ll have Father’s
money.’ I didn’t mean to sound bitter but I
couldn’t help it.
‘But that’s just it, Adam. I know what he’s done
to you and why and I don’t think it’s right. I
discovered some reports on you. Simon hired a
private investigator to find you.’
‘Why would he do that?’ I asked surprised, but
it did explain how he had got my telephone
number.
‘He wanted to make sure that you didn’t
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approach your father.’ She looked decidedly ill
at ease. She continued, ‘Now I know now why
he was in London every weekend. I thought he
was having yet another affair and I’ve learnt to
put up with them for the children’s sake. It wasn’t
another woman this time, though. It was his
father. Simon was bullying and cajoling him into
making a will in his favour.’
And he wanted to make sure the field was clear
of any possible interference from me.
Harriet went on, ‘I’ve decided that I don’t want
any part of it, Adam. If you want to contest the
will I’ll tell them the truth. I’ve had enough of
Simon’s lies. But I can’t leave him, I’d have
nowhere to go and I have no money of my own.’
She began to cry and I felt very sorry for her. ‘I
couldn’t throw Simon out and he wouldn’t go
anyway. You know how forceful he can be.’
I did. Childhood memories rushed back of the
times Simon had cajoled and bullied me into
doing the things he wanted. ‘I think I might have
a way round that.’
‘You might?’
I didn’t like the hope in her voice, because it
put too much pressure on me, but I had to do
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something to help her. I couldn’t let Simon
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destroy her life as my father had tried to destroy
mine.
She said, ‘If you could get Simon to leave me
then I could bring Daisy home. She’s so
unhappy.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort something out.’ If I live
that long. ‘You’ll have to trust me, Harriet.’
She nodded.
I gave her a smile of encouragement. ‘Now
where can I find Simon?’
She gave me the address and fifteen minutes
later I was pulling up outside his offices and
laboratory on a newly built and highly prestigious
business park on the southern outskirts of the
city. I parked in one of the visitors’ slots next to
Simon’s Range Rover and gazed up at the
modern three-storey glass fronted building. I
wondered what had happened to the American
deal, and if it was still going through.
The entrance door was locked so I rang the
bell by the side of it. After a few seconds an
attractive young woman in her mid thirties let
me in and showed me into Simon’s large office.
It matched the rest of the building, wide smoked
glass windows, chunky modern furniture, pastel-
coloured walls and brightly coloured abstract art.
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If this was anything to go by then I guessed there
had been no expense spared over the laboratories
either.
Simon looked at me cautiously. ‘What do you
want, Adam, I’m very busy.’ He didn’t bother to
rise or invite me to sit. I didn’t need to be invited.
I crossed to the leather chair in front of Simon’s
desk and sat down.
‘Nice place. The overheads must be huge.’ I
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gazed around the room.
‘I haven’t got time for this.’ Simon glared at
me. I didn’t comment. Instead I wondered how
far he and Faye had gone?
Simon sighed. ‘OK, let’s get this over with.’
‘I need a favour.’ I saw Simon’s surprise. Then
his expression darkened.
‘If it’s about Father’s will…’
I shook my head. ‘It’s not. You’re welcome to
the money, Simon. Your needs are greater than
mine.’
Simon looked at me warily.
I went on, ‘You must have a lot of bills to pay.’
I waved my arm around the room. ‘Father’s
money should help keep the creditors off your
back and pay the school fees you owe.’
Simon slapped his hand down on the desk.
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‘You’ve been talking to Harriet. She’s no bus –’
‘She’s every business, Simon,’ I declared
angrily. ‘She’s your wife, or perhaps you
conveniently forget that? Anyway I don’t give a
fuck what you get up to and who you get up to it
with, even if it is my wife.’ Simon’s eyes flickered
with alarm. ‘You can do what you like with your
life and after this I shall go out of it for good. We
don’t have to see or speak to one another again,
but before we part I want a favour. I reckon you
owe me one, or maybe I will start to get more
than curious as to why you visited Father so often
in the last six months of his life and what you
were doing in his study day after day and night
after night when the sad bastard was suffering
from dementia. I might even have enough to
contest the will and with Harriet’s help…’
‘She wouldn’t dare!’ Simon cried, but I had
him on the run. I could see that.
‘I think you’ll find she will. And if you don’t
see she’s all right then I swear, Simon, that I will
drag you through the courts until every single
penny of our father’s money has gone to the
lawyers and your business is ruined. Now do you
understand or do I –’
‘You’ve made your point,’ Simon snapped.
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‘What’s this favour?’
‘A laboratory somewhere on Salisbury Plain in
July 1994 and for some time before it; I want to
know who was running it and if possible what
they were doing. It should be right up your
street.’
I could see from his expression that it wasn’t
the favour he’d been expecting.
‘And how am I supposed to find that out?’
‘Use your extensive contacts. You’re in the
same business, so ask around.’
‘What was the project?’
‘I don’t know but it involved experimenting
with chemicals that cause cancer.’
‘Christ, you’re not asking much!’
‘All I want is a name.’
‘It’s not possible.’
‘It is, Simon,’ I replied quietly and steadily.
‘There can’t be many laboratories on Salisbury
Plain. I suggest you start by asking if anyone
worked in or around the RAF base there.’
Simon looked at me as if I was barking mad.
‘It’ll be top secret then.’
‘People still talk. Simon…’
‘Ok. When do you want this information by?’
‘Monday at the latest.’
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He gave a hollow laugh. ‘You’ve got to be
joking. It could take me weeks.’
‘I don’t have weeks, Simon, and neither do you.
I might not even have days.’
‘What do you mean?’ he asked sharply.
‘People have already died because of it and if
I’m not careful I might be next on the list. That
should please you, Simon. And in case you’re
thinking of stalling me then I’ve made a written
statement, which I will give it to Harriet,’ I lied
smoothly thinking that might not be a bad idea
anyway.
‘Have you gone mad?’
‘You’d better start telephoning your contacts,
Simon. I’ll call you later.’
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Simon hesitated.
‘If I don’t hear from you by Monday,’ I
continued, ‘then I shall go to London and engage
the most expensive lawyer I can find. I mean it.’
With an elaborate sigh and a raising of his
eyebrows Simon picked up his phone. ‘Jane, I
don’t want to take any calls for the rest of the
day, unless they’re from my brother, Adam. And
I don’t want to be disturbed. Just bring me a flask
of coffee.’
I checked into a small family-run bed and
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breakfast by the canal. I knew I was asking a lot
of Simon but he was in the business of research
and he did know a great many people in that field.
I hoped he could get me the information by
Monday but I didn’t necessarily expect it. I
checked my phone and saw that Steve had left
me a message. I couldn’t bring myself to ignore
it. He might have some new information for me.
‘Adam, at last! Where are you?’
‘You told me to go away,’ I said warily.
‘Yes, but that was before…’ he faltered.
My heart sank. I guessed there was a warrant
out for my arrest.
Steve confirmed it with his next words. ‘You’re
wanted for questioning in connection with the
death of an old man called Rutland. We’ve got a
file on you. It says you suffered a breakdown after
a girl called Alison Lydeway died; she was Ben
Harrow’s sister. Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’
‘I didn’t kill Ben and I didn’t kill Rutland. He
was already dead,’ I replied crisply. ‘How do you
know about the file?’
‘I’m back in Portsmouth. They needed extra
officers for Rutland’s murder.’
I didn’t say anything but my mind was racing.
Convenient that Steve should be called back,
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drafted into this investigation and then told about
the file on me.
‘What’s going on, Adam?’
‘You know what.’
I heard Steve draw in a breath. ‘Come back
and give yourself up.’
‘Why? I haven’t done anything.’
‘We can give you protection.’
‘We? Who are we Steve? The police? And
protection from whom? Special Branch?’ Steve’s
silence unnerved me. I couldn’t believe Special
Branch could be behind these killings, but I
wondered if they knew who was. ‘Did they ask
you to call me? Are they tracing this call?’
‘Turn yourself in, Adam. Let’s get this business
cleared up.’
I switched off my mobile and checked out of
the bed and breakfast. I wasn’t sure where I could
go that was safe – perhaps nowhere. Steve had
been told to call me. Special Branch knew I had
come here to speak to Simon and they’d ask him
why? Would Simon tell them? Probably, if it
meant getting me off his back. How long would
it take them to get to Simon? Would it be before
he could give me some idea of who might have
been conducting that research?
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I drove across the bridge into Wales and found
myself a small hotel in Cardiff where I spent
another sleepless night. The next morning I
telephoned Simon from a call box. No joy, but
neither did I get any indication that the police or
Special Branch had been to see him.
I walked by the harbour my mind turning to
Faye. I wondered how many times she had been
unfaithful. How many times had she slept with
someone in that flat in Convent Garden? I
examined my feelings for her and found them
devoid of love. I felt only sadness that it hadn’t
worked out but even that was tinged with relief.
If I came through this I would leave her. I didn’t
think she’d be heart broken.
On Monday I rang Simon from a payphone
across the road.
‘At last. I’ve been waiting for you to call. Why
did you switch your mobile off?’
‘You’ve got a name? I asked surprised. That was
much quicker than I dared hope.
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‘Gerry Drake.’
‘Where can I find him?’
‘In a cemetery in Devizes.’
‘He’s dead?’
‘I don’t think he decided to quit science to
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become a gravedigger. Of course he’s dead. He
was killed in a fire.’
Another bloody fire! Had that been started
deliberately like Jack’s and Honeyman’s or was
it accidental and a mere coincidence? ‘What kind
of fire?’
‘How the hell should I know,’ Simon screamed
with exasperation. ‘A house fire, I suppose. Does
it matter?’
Oh yes, it matters. Aloud I asked, ‘When?’
‘What the hell is all this about?’
‘When?’
There was a short pause on the other end then,
‘1995.’
I knew it. ‘Do you know if he was working
with anyone?’
‘No. You wanted a name and I’ve given it to
you. It’s the best I can do.’
I rang off, pausing for a moment to gather my
thoughts: perhaps he had given me any old name
to get me off his back. I headed for Devizes.
It didn’t take me long to reach the small Wiltshire
market town. I asked an elderly man for
directions to the cemetery and found it not far
from the canal. My heart sank at the size of it.
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The records office was closed so there was
nothing for it but to cover the ground
methodically until I found the grave that I was
looking for.
It was a bleak grey day and the naked trees
afforded no protection from a sharp wind. The
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graves looked forlorn and abandoned as I trudged
among them. Eventually I found what I was
looking for on the far side, bordering undulating
fields. I stared down at the black marble
headstone. It was simple enough. Gerald Drake
5.5. 1950 - 3.4.1995, ‘Beloved son and father.’ Not
husband? Was he widowed, divorced? There
were flowers on the grave, real ones not plastic,
and they were fresh. Who still mourned Gerald
Drake? His mother or father? Or perhaps a son
or daughter? Someone at least who might be able
to tell me something of Drake’s work and the
circumstances of his death.
I wrote down the dates and returned to the
bike. Ten minutes later I was in the small sub
office of the Wiltshire Gazette, just off the market
square, where I was told if I needed to access the
archives I would have to go to Swindon where
‘head office’ was.
As the time ticked by I set out for Swindon
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and decided that a call at the library might be
more helpful than the newspaper office. With
some difficulty and many frustrations I finally
managed to locate it and persuade the librarian
to allow me access to the microfiche and the local
newspaper archives.
As I settled down to scan through the obituaries
and reports of 1995 my stomach rumbled and I
realised it was mid afternoon. But I didn’t have
time to eat. I had to find someone who knew, or
was related, to Gerald Drake, and who knew
what had happened in 1994.
I began by looking through the notices of
death; this time at least I had a date. There were
several notices for the few days after Drake’s
death, from relatives, friends and colleagues and
religiously I wrote the names down though few
gave their surnames. Still I could see that there
was a ‘beloved daughter,’ who might be able to
tell me something. There was nothing that
referred to Drake as ‘son’, neither was there
anything for ‘husband’. There were a couple of
‘nephews’. What I didn’t have was addresses, but
the telephone directory might be able to furnish
some at least and failing that the undertakers. I
noted where flowers could be sent, a journey
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that would take me back to Devizes.
Frowning with impatience and worried that
time was running out, I spun back the microfiche
to see if there were any reports on the fire that
had killed Gerald Drake. In my haste I almost
missed it. There was a picture of what looked to
have once been a large, country house, gutted
by fire, and in the foreground were a couple of
firemen and a fire appliance. The headline ran,
‘House fire claims scientist’s life.’
In anticipation I read the article.
A fire has claimed the life of eminent scientist
Dr Gerald Drake (45). Four fire appliances were
called to a fire at Dr Drake’s house in the early
hours of Monday morning after reports of smoke
and flames were seen by Dr Drake’s nearest
neighbour half a mile away. After a search by fire
fighters wearing breathing apparatus, Doctor
Drake’s body was discovered in the drawing
room. The six-bedroom former manor house,
thought to date back to the 1700s, has been almost
completely destroyed. There was no one else in
the house at the time of the fire although it was
believed that his daughter had arrived home from
university for the weekend.
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Dr Drake was an eminent biochemist and a
member of the Royal Society of Chemistry. He
had published many scientific papers and was a
renowned specialist of genetic research. Police
have not ruled out the possibility of arson and
animal liberationists, as Dr Drake had been the
target of these in the past when his
groundbreaking research identified brain-
clogging proteins that cause dementia.
Dr Drake, who is divorced, leaves a daughter
Joanne (22).
So Simon would have known Drake quite well.
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Their paths must have crossed both being experts
in genetics. It was typical of Simon not to tell
me more and silently I cursed my brother.
I quickly scrolled onwards until I found
coverage of the funeral. The photographer had
taken a shot of the grieving crowd dressed in
black on what looked like a bright and blustery
April day. I stared hard at the photograph.
Standing stiffly in the middle of the group was a
slender young woman in her early twenties. She
was dressed in black trousers and a black jacket.
A hat was pulled down low over her forehead,
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her eyes were mournful, her expression bereft.
The newspaper report named her as Joanne
Drake. I knew her by a different name: Jody
Piers.
I felt a stab at my heart. Why had she lied to
me?
With churning emotions I left the library. I
needed some air. I needed to time to think
through the implications of this. I needed space.
Before I realised it I was through Devizes. The
day was drawing in. Visibility was poor as I drove
through the bleak rainswept countryside. I had
only half my mind on the road the other half
was trying to come to grips with what I had just
learned.
Why hadn’t she told me about her father? Why
let me stumble on blindly? Did she hope that I
would give up and when she saw that I wasn’t
going to she had given me the name of the ship?
A name that she had known all the time. How
had she conveniently found lodgings next door
to Jack? Had she really been in London on the
day of Jack’s funeral or had she ransacked Jack’s
house in search of his disks and diary? Why?
Perhaps she didn’t know what her father had
been doing in that research laboratory and
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wanted to find out? Or perhaps she did know
and she was desperate to keep secret the fact that
he had been exporting something that had caused
cancer. How had she known that Jack was
investigating it though? Had Jack confided in
her? Is that what he meant when he said his
mouth was full of deceit and fraud, except that
he meant her mouth?
I recalled my first meeting with Jody – her head
sticking out of the window to greet me. I
remembered how she had happened to be
jogging along the promenade on the day I had
discovered Jack’s message. Then she had been
in the dockyard after I had spoken to Sandy
Ditton and finally that telephone call before I
headed for Bath. God what a fool I’d been! My
feelings for her had blinded me. She had
deliberately set out to get close to me in order to
discover how much I knew and I had told her I
was going to Simon. A chill ran down my spine.
How far would she go to stop me?
What had Gerald Drake been doing? Could it
conceivably have something to do with chemical
warfare? Perhaps it concerned the trial of a new
drug or substance that had been exported illegally
overseas and sold to terrorists for which Drake
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would have been handsomely paid. Was Jody’s
father a traitor? Is that why she was so desperate
that no one should get to the truth?
Behind the pain of my hurt was a smouldering
anger. I didn’t like being used.
I dropped a gear and increased my speed. I rode
past RAF Upavon and on to the Salisbury Plain.
Out of nowhere a car came racing up behind me.
He must have been doing a ton. He had his full
beam on, blinding me. I waved my arm to try
and tell him to lower his lights but it didn’t work.
I slowed down hoping the idiot would overtake
me. He didn’t. He stayed behind. I felt the first
flutter of fear. He flashed his lights at me. Perhaps
it was the police. They had traced me.
The lights flashed again and again. He was
flagging me down but I couldn’t see any
indication that it was an unmarked police car and
I wasn’t going to stop to find out. I could out
ride him. The bike had greater speed and
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manoeuvrability than a car. But just as I made
up my mind to do it a lorry emerged from one
of the dips in the road and was heading full pelt
towards me, lights blazing, horn blaring as the
car behind me pulled out to overtake me. I had
no option but to apply the brakes as the driver
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behind me seemed intent on killing himself.
With the blood rushing through my ears and my
heart in overdrive the bike went into a skid, the
car shot past me with inches to spare, the lorry
roared away. I sped off the road over the soft wet
earth, felt myself catapulted into the air and hit
the ground.
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CHAPTER 16
I
t was pitch black when I awoke. It was also
raining heavily. My head hurt so much I
thought it might burst and every part of my body
ached. With an effort and much grunting and
groaning I heaved myself up. I pulled off my
helmet and felt the rain lashing my face. I had to
get into the dry and warm, but I was in the middle
of nowhere.
I staggered up. I felt dizzy and sank to my knees.
I took a deep breath and tried again a few seconds
later. This time I succeeded. I was getting fed up
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with being a target. I was going to make as much
bloody trouble as I could before the bastards tried
again.
I peered into the dark night, wondering in
which direction was the road. I didn’t want to
risk stumbling off deeper on to the plains. If I
did, I’d probably die of hypothermia. There was
nothing for it but to wait until I saw a passing
car’s headlights. It was difficult with the wind
beating against me and my head pounding, but I
scoured the black night until, some minutes later,
I had sight of a car and got my bearings. I set off
in the direction of the road and was surprised
and relieved to find it less than a half a mile away.
Now all I had to do was wait for a car, or lorry,
that would let me hitch a lift. Looking the way I
must, I didn’t hold out a great deal of hope.
Several cars passed me before a lorry ground to
a halt and wincing with pain I stumbled towards
it. I climbed into the cab with a heartfelt sigh of
relief and much gratitude.
The driver said he was heading for the ferry
port at Portsmouth. Fate it seemed was taking
me back there, and once there I knew what I had
to do no matter what the consequences. I had to
confront Jody.
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I caught a taxi to the marina where I showered
and changed into dry clothes. Then I called her.
‘Adam, at last! Where have you been? I’ve been
worried about you.’
I bet. Worried that whoever she was working
with hadn’t succeeded in killing me. Or had Jody
been driving that car? ‘Can you meet me?’ I
wondered if she would notice a new hardness in
my voice.
She didn’t seem to. ‘Of course, where?’
‘Northney Marina, Hayling Island. I’ll meet
you outside the marina office in about twenty
minutes.’
I hovered at the marina entrance until her small
car pulled in. There was no one behind her or in
front of her.
‘Let’s walk.’ I took her arm and we set off
towards the boatyard. It had stopped raining. She
said nothing. ‘I expect you’re surprised to see
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me,’ I said after a moment. I couldn’t keep the
bitterness out of my voice.
‘What’s happened, Adam? Clearly something
has.’
I spun round to stare at her. ‘As if you don’t
know. It didn’t work Jody. I’m still alive.’
‘What are you talking about? Has someone
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tried to kill you?’ She looked aghast.
I laughed scornfully. ‘Was it you driving that
car?’
‘Adam, please you’re not making any sense.’
‘Good try, Jody, but it’s over. I know who you
are. How well do you know my brother? Did he
call you to say that he had given me your father’s
name?’ She was staring at me bemused. I
continued. ‘Did you kill Jack or did you have
help? Are you shagging Brookfield as well as my
brother? Did you get Brookfield to tell you about
the tallies being switched? Did you tell him I
was going to look out the fire reports so he’d
better say they had gone for computerisation?’
In the dim lights along the edge of the marina
I could see her astounded expression. She was
almost as good an actress as Faye.
‘I know about your father,’ I said abruptly. I
saw her stiffen. I wanted to shake the truth from
her. It took a great deal of effort to control myself.
This was a woman who had made me love her. I
wanted to hurt her. ‘Was he betraying his country
is that why you can’t let the truth come out?’
A flicker of pain crossed her face before her
expression changed to anger. I experienced a
moment of doubt.
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‘My father was not a traitor,’ she blazed. ‘And
neither am I a killer or a slut. I don’t know your
brother and I have never met Brookfield.’
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Was I wrong? How could I be? It all fitted
together. No, she wasn’t going to deceive me
again. The anger bubbled up in me and burst
forth. ‘How many more people are going to die
because of your lies?’
‘I didn’t mean –’
‘Did you have anything to do with Jack’s
death?’ I grabbed her roughly by the arms.
‘You can’t think –’
‘Did you?’ I shouted.
‘No,’ she shouted back. ‘You want to know why
your friend was killed in that fire and I need to
know why my father suffered the same fate. It’s
taken me five years to get this far and I still don’t
know the name of the bastard who killed him. I
thought Jack, and then you, might find out who
he is.’
I stared at her a moment longer. She held my
gaze. Finally I released her. It didn’t mean I
believed her.
‘What was your father researching?’ I snapped.
‘I don’t know. I’ve been trying to find out. I’ve
talked to everyone who knew him, who worked
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with him. I’ve spoken to my father’s friends, all
my relatives. All I discovered was that he worked
on various projects part funded by the
Department of Health and part funded by a
medical research charity. The charity was based
in Portsmouth. I came here. I met Jack.’
‘How?’ I still didn’t trust her.
‘Purely by coincidence. No, it was. When I
found out my father had worked in Portsmouth
I applied to undertake a research project in the
harbour. I met Jack when he came to the
dockyard on an exercise and we got talking. I was
staying in a small hotel but needed to find
something cheaper. He said his next door
neighbour was looking for a lodger.’
I didn’t believe her. ‘When was this?’
‘Early October.’ She looked away. I knew she
was lying. She continued, ‘Someone was working
with my father. He’s the man who killed my
father and Jack. He’s the man who can tell us
what was really going on in that laboratory and I
intend to find him.’
I turned and began walking back towards the
marina. She followed. There were still so many
questions that she hadn’t answered. I could press
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her yet I knew her answers would be more lies.
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‘Adam, what are you going to do now?’
I wasn’t about to tell her. I drew up. Inside the
marina office were two men; they were talking
to the duty manager and they didn’t look like
sailors. I had to think quickly. I grabbed Jody’s
arm and pulled her back out of sight. ‘You were
followed.’
‘I didn’t see anyone.’
I swung her round so that she was facing me.
‘Do you want me to find out who was working
with your father?’ I said urgently.
‘Yes.’
‘Then do as I say. Go back to your car and drive
it round to the hotel. Stop there with the engine
running and get out.’
‘But what –’
‘No questions,’ I barked.
She considered for a brief moment. Then,
‘OK.’
I watched her head towards the car park. Would
she do as I asked? The two men inside the marina
office didn’t turn round. She started the engine.
I ran through the boatyard until I came out by
the entrance to the marina with the hotel
opposite me. She climbed out, a puzzled
expression on her face. I jumped in.
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‘I’ll be in touch.’
I sped away. In my rear view mirror I saw her
looking after me. No one followed me.
Just beyond Petersfield I pulled into a service
station and sat for a few minutes before heading
inside for something to eat. I stared into my
coffee and ate my bacon sandwich. Blotting out
the tinny Christmas songs that pervaded the
steamy warmth of the café I tried to put the pieces
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of the jigsaw together. I didn’t believe that cock
and bull story she’d given me about just bumping
into Jack. I didn’t believe anything she had said
except that her father was Drake and I knew that
for a fact. What was she doing now? Had she
called her accomplice and told him I was driving
her car? She didn’t know where I was heading
though.
And the two men in the marina? I guessed they
were Special Branch. Perhaps they had been
following Jody? Would they question her? Maybe
they had already done so. Had she called them
when I had telephoned and asked her to meet
me? That made some kind of sense if she didn’t
want me to discover the truth about her father;
if she couldn’t kill me then she could have me
arrested. Sure, I could spout something about
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Drake and his research project, but Special
Branch would ensure that either I wasn’t
believed, or that I would never be allowed to
speak out about it. Special Branch didn’t need to
silence Jody because they knew that she would
never want her father’s treachery to be made
public. And the person who had worked with
Drake – was there one? Or was that pure
fabrication too?
I finished my coffee and the last of my
sandwich without tasting it, and called Simon
from the public telephone in the corridor
between the ladies’ and gents’ toilets. Harriet
answered.
‘He’s not here, Adam. He said he had to go to
London to sort out your father’s affairs.’
I could hear the wariness in her voice. ‘Then
he’s staying at the house?’
‘Probably.’ Then she added, ‘He might not be
alone.’
Faye? Was Simon with her? I rang off after
telling her that I’d be in touch later.
The service station car park wasn’t very full. I
crossed to Jody’s car but before I had gone half
way a car pulled in behind it. I slowed my steps.
In the car were the two men I’d seen in the
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marina office. How had they followed me here?
Jody didn’t know where I was heading. But then
perhaps they didn’t need to tail me. Perhaps
Jody’s car had some kind of tracking device in it.
Was she aware of that I wondered?
I tapped my pockets as if I’d forgotten
something then swiftly did an about turn and
headed back to the service station. I called into
the café area and my table as though to collect
what I’d forgotten and glanced out of the window
at the car. One of the men was missing from it.
I quickly left the café but instead of turning
out of the exit I headed for the gents’ toilet.
Before reaching it I did a swift turn to the left
with a quick glance over my shoulder; no one
was behind me. I ran outside and as luck would
have it a lorry driver was just climbing into his
vehicle.
‘Could you give me a lift, mate?’ I called out.
The man poised, one foot on the step up into
his cab. ‘Where do you want to go?’
‘London.’
‘Then you’re in luck. Hop in.’
He dropped me outside the Embankment and I
caught the circle line to Victoria, from where I
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walked to Father’s house. I pressed my finger
on the bell and kept it there until a light went on
in the hall.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?’
Simon raged throwing open the door.
‘I rather think that’s my line.’ I stepped over
the threshold, surprising my brother with my
assertiveness. ‘You can tell Faye to come down,
or shall I go up.’ I paused with my foot on the
bottom stair.
Simon looked as though he had dressed hastily,
since his shirt was hanging out. He wore no tie,
socks or shoes. He seemed to be on the point of
denying that Faye was there, then shrugged and
headed towards the kitchen calling as he went,
‘Faye, it’s your husband.’
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As if she doesn’t already know! Simon must
have peered out of the window and seen me. I
stayed where I was, my body rigid with tension,
wondering what emotions would course through
me when I saw her. Within a few seconds she
appeared at the top of the stairs and glowered at
me. I couldn’t help smiling to myself. With Faye
I would always be in the wrong.
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ she
declared angrily.
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I was amazed at her cheek. ‘Aren’t I suppose to
say that?’
She raised her beautifully plucked eyebrows.
She’d even had time to renew her lipstick. ‘I don’t
know what you mean. I’m here helping Simon
sort through your father’s things.’
Oh, that was good. It was almost believable.
The old me would have probably apologised.
Now I saw the steely glint in her eyes that
betrayed selfishness, the tightness of her mouth
and the tilt of her chin that should have warned
me years ago that Faye always got what she
wanted.
‘It won’t work, Faye, not this time. I’m not
interested in who you’ve been screwing,
including my brother.’
She stared at me for a moment, as she
calculated which way to jump: a straight denial
or something serpentine? Seeing my expression,
she must have decided the time for more fairy
tales was over. As she descended the stairs, I
thought I saw relief on her face. She pushed past
me and I followed her to the kitchen where
Simon was sitting at the table with a whisky
bottle and glass in front of him. He glanced at us
and took a swig of his drink.
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It was Faye who spoke first. ‘I don’t think
you’ve got any cause to be so bloody righteous,
Adam. You do realise the police have been to see
me at work. You’ve put my whole career in
jeopardy.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘You’re wanted for murder, for heaven’s sake!’
She reached across Simon and poured herself
a glass of whisky. Neither of them offered me
one. Simon glanced up at me a wary expression
on his face, which, now that I looked closer, I
could see was etched with worry. To him Faye
had just been available and willing. I guessed that
Simon’s need for sex was a compulsion and
already he was beginning to regret being involved
with her.
‘Simon’s told me about Alison.’ Faye
shuddered beautifully, but instead of making me
angry or defensive it made me laugh. That stung
her to retort, ‘I don’t think it’s anything to smile
about. God, if only I’d known all these years that
I’d been living with a madman and a probable
murderer.’
‘Lucky I don’t want to kill you , then.’ I
marvelled at my ability to be so flippant about
something that would certainly have sent me
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over the edge a few weeks earlier. Simon’s head
came up; he had obviously noticed the change
in me.
‘Don’t worry, Faye. You can have your divorce,’
I said. ‘If Harriet leaves Simon, perhaps the two
of you can team up. I think you suit one another
admirably.’
‘What do you want, Adam?’ Simon interrupted
sharply.
‘I want her to leave.’
‘You’d better go, Faye,’ Simon said, glancing at
her. Faye looked furious.
‘I will not.’
‘For Christ’s sake, get out.’ Simon shouted.
Faye flushed. Her eyes flicked between us, and
clearly aware that she was not going to be the
focus of attention, replied vindictively, ‘Sod you
then. Sod you both. You’ll be hearing from my
lawyers, Adam.’ She flounced from the room.
‘You can collect your things from the house,
including your sodding cat and don’t bother
coming to my parents for Christmas.’
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If I hadn’t been so worried I might have
cheered.
Neither Simon nor I spoke until we heard the
front door bang shut a few minutes later. Then I
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said, ‘OK, I want to know who was working with
Drake?’
‘What is all this about Drake?’ Simon said
wearily. ‘What is going on, Adam? The police
haven’t been to question me yet but no doubt
they will. I can’t afford to have a brother of mine
splashed across the Sunday newspapers, wanted
for murder. I’ve already lost the American finance
deal but I’ve got the chance of going in with
someone else. You’re not going to ruin that for
me.’
‘Just tell me who Drake was working with,
Simon,’ I said.
‘I don’t know.’
I made to leave. ‘Have it your own way, but if
I get caught by the police I’m going to tell them
that I don’t think Father fell down the stairs. You
pushed him.’
Simon paled. ‘They won’t believe you.’ He
tried to bluff it out but I could see he was
nervous.
‘No? Who had a private detective follow me
to make sure I stayed away? Who inherits
everything? Who spent hours with him before
he died? Who is in debt?’
Simon sprang out of his chair and paced the
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room. The terrible truth of how far my brother
might have gone to get hold of the money sucked
the breath from me.
Simon said, ‘He was old. He was ill and
confused. He fell.’
‘Convenient, though, for you. Were you really
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in meetings in Bath that morning? Perhaps I
should check. Just think what the newspapers
would do with that. Then there’s Faye; my
brother screwing my wife. The tabloids will love
it.’
I heard Simon’s laboured breathing above the
ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. I
couldn’t see his expression because his back was
to me.
‘Who gave you Drake’s name?’ I said quietly.
Simon spun round. ‘Does it matter? You asked
me to find out. I did.’
‘But who told you?’ I persisted.
‘You’ve gone mad. Why this obsession?’ But it
was bluster.
‘Simon…’
He returned to the table to pour himself
another whisky. Finally he said, ‘Tim Davenham.’
It was my turn to look surprised. I recalled
Davenham at my father’s funeral: the tall, good-
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looking man. My brain began to slot the pieces
into place. Davenham must have taken my file
from the back of my motorbike. Why? Because
he must have been working on the project with
Drake. He had given Drake’s name to Simon and
set me up so that he could be ahead of me when
I went to Devizes, and then he had tried to kill
me on Salisbury Plain. Jody and Davenham
wanted to ensure that the secret research project
remained just that: secret. My fist clenched and
a chill entered my heart.
Steeling myself for his answer, I said, ‘What
made you ask Davenham?’
‘It was fortuitous really. He called me on
Sunday. He wants to put some money into one
of my research projects; we had discussed it at
Father’s funeral. I told him you wanted to find
out about this laboratory on Salisbury Plain.’
Oh yes, how fortuitous. If I wanted proof that
Jody was working with Davenham then there it
was. It didn’t explain the men in the marina
though, or the fact that her car was fitted with a
tracking device, unless Special Branch were
keeping an eye on her as well as me. I still didn’t
have all the answers but I would soon.
‘Davenham’s address, Simon?’ I demanded.
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Simon nursed his whisky.
‘I need it now,’ I said firmly.
He stared at me a moment longer, then with a
shrug gave it to me.
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CHAPTER 17
B
y the time I reached Davenham’s home in
Mayfair it had stopped raining but the wind
was gathering in strength.
I wasn’t stupid enough to think that after
confronting Davenham he’d let me quietly go
back to Portsmouth and resume my career as a
marine artist. This was the end of the line. Soon
I would know it all. And soon, said the small
voice inside my head, you’ll be dead like Jack.
I rang the bell and waited with my heart
knocking against my ribs, from anticipation not
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fear. There were none of the symptoms of the
panic attacks that had once tormented me. My
fury was making me bold, and perhaps even
foolish, but I didn’t care.
The door drew open and Davenham was
smiling at me. ‘Adam, come in, I’ve been
expecting you.’ His voice was silky smooth.
I wanted to round on him there and then, to
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hit that smug, smiling countenance, but I forced
myself to wait. Time for that later, when I had
the answers, I told myself, as he showed me into
a large, splendidly proportioned room, elegantly
and extravagantly furnished.
Davenham said, ‘You’re very persistent, I must
say. It would have been better for you if you
hadn’t been.’
I should have been afraid but I wasn’t. This
was the end, the truth. And even if he didn’t kill
me, or I managed to escape, I was still glad I had
come. I vowed that before I went I would do
something to hurt him, to take revenge.
I said, ‘You were responsible for giving those
fire fighters cancer and for killing Jack.’
‘I haven’t killed anyone.’
I tensed myself in anger; I wanted to ram my
fist into his grinning face.
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‘Why don’t you take off your wet jacket,’ he
suggested politely. ‘I don’t think you’ll be needing
it again, and you’re dripping water all over the
parquet flooring.’
I ignored him. He shrugged as if to say please
yourself and waved me into a seat easing himself
in the seat opposite, pinching up his beautifully
tailored light grey trousers, and crossing his legs.
I didn’t sit but continued to loom over him. I
could take him at any time. I was strong, fit and
younger than him. Was he alone in the house,
though? If I attacked him here and now would
someone come running? Would they call the
police? What chance did I have then of setting
the record straight? No one would believe the
word of a man wanted for murder against an
affluent and respected man like Davenham. I
listened for any sound that might tell me if the
house was occupied, but apart from the ticking
of a clock there was nothing.
Davenham went on, ‘If it’s murder you’re
talking about, I rather think it’s you the police
want.’
‘You took my file from my bike, when I went
back inside to say goodbye to Faye.’
‘Of course.’
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‘And you tried to force me off the road in a
Mercedes.’
‘I don’t normally do that sort of thing but I
thought it might be fun. I didn’t expect you to
be riding home so slowly.’
‘How did you know where to find me?’ Then
I answered my own question. ‘Simon told you
of course but you couldn’t have got ahead of me
on the dual carriageway,’ I added, puzzled as I
tried to work out the timing of the incident.
‘No, that wasn’t Simon. You were being
followed anyway, not only by that boy, Ben
Lydeway, but by Special Branch.’
I already knew that. ‘Because of Jack?’
‘He just wouldn’t give it up.’
‘How do you know Special Branch were
following me?’
‘Because of me.’ A tall, gangly man stepped out
from the dining room.
I was astounded to see it was Pete Motcombe
from Red Watch. It took a fraction of a second
for my mind to connect him with Jack’s last
message to me. His mouth is full of deceit and fraud.
My mind raced, rewinding conversations I’d had
with Motcombe trying to find any sign or clue
of his deception. Hatred and anger course
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through me. I clenched my fists and glared at
him.
‘You arranged for Jack to swap duties with Ian
to make sure he would go into that fire first,’ I
said. Then the blood froze in my veins. Ian? He
was missing. ‘You bastard.’ I spat. I was beyond
fear. Anger consumed me. I lunged out and
grabbed Motcombe by the throat before a violent
blow struck me on the side of my head. I fell to
the floor.
Someone kicked me in the stomach. I doubled
up with pain. I heard snatches of conversation
before I was hauled up and thrust in a chair.
‘Let’s have no more heroics, Adam,’ Davenham
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said sternly.
With a throbbing head and a sore stomach I
wasn’t in very good physical shape to attempt them,
but the fury inside me was far from subdued. It
had been stupid of me to attack Motcombe. If I
wanted to get out of this alive then I’d have to do
better than that. I had to use my brain. I needed
time to think. I also had to know the truth.
‘How did you get on the watch, Motcombe?’
‘I was transferred from London, or so my cover
story went. Everyone accepted me for who I was,
including you.’
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‘But I still don’t understand, if you’re with
Special Branch then what are you doing helping
this murdering bastard?’
Davenham laughed.
Motcombe said, ‘Let’s say that Special Branch
have a special interest in Mr Davenham, and so
do I.’
It clicked at last. ‘You’re working for Special
Branch and for him.’ I jerked my head in
Davenham’s direction and then wished I hadn’t
as a sharp pain shot through it.
‘I told you he was clever,’ Motcombe tossed at
Davenham.
I wished I was clever enough to find a way out
of this. I said, ‘Special Branch put you into Red
Watch when Jack started getting curious about
those deaths and the fire. How did you know
what he was doing? Who told you?’ Jody, of
course. My heart sank at the extent of her
deception.
Motcombe said, ‘I don’t think you need to
know that.’
Davenham disagreed. ‘It won’t do any harm
to tell him, after all he’s not going to be around
long enough to repeat it.’
‘Suit yourself.’
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Davenham rose to fetch himself a drink. My
eyes flicked to Motcombe wondering if I could
take him. Motcombe read my thoughts. ‘Don’t
even think it, Adam. I am trained to kill.’
‘Drink, Adam?’
‘Why not.’
‘I think you’d be more comfortable if you
removed your sailing jacket.’
After a moment’s delay, I stood up and did so
wondering if I threw it at one of them, would it
cause enough of a distraction for me to make
my escape? But Motcombe’s protruding eyes
never left me. As Davenham handed me the
drink Motcombe took a gun from his pocket.
I wouldn’t be able to overpower the two of
them and escape a possible gunshot wound.
Motcombe was a professional he wouldn’t miss.
The odds were stacked too high.
‘So come on, who told you what Jack was
doing?’ I wanted to hear Davenham tell me it
was Jody. I had to know for certain.
‘Bransbury, the Minister for the Environment,
Energy and Waste.’
I started. It wasn’t the answer I had been
expecting. When I recovered from my surprise
my heart sank. Now I understood.
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Motcombe took up the explanation. ‘Bransbury’s
telephone was tapped. He had double-crossed
one political party, he might do it again. He was
vulnerable to blackmail having crossed the floor.
And he is gay.’
Davenham must have seen my surprise
because he said:
‘No one knows. Not even his wife.’
There was something in Davenham’s tone of
voice that made me wonder. Was Davenham his
lover?
‘Rutland telephoned me after your friend Jack
visited Honeyman,’ Davenham explained.
‘Honeyman had called the gallant captain to say
that Jack Bartholomew was asking questions
about a certain cargo that was carried in 1994. I
had to warn Bill. The Minister for the
Environment, Energy and Waste involved in
disposing of hazardous waste and possibly
causing the death of those firemen? Can you
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imagine the scandal?’
‘So this is where you came in, Motcombe. You
had to hush things up?’
‘I was sent in to find out what the secret was
that could cause a scandal and possibly wreck
the government. Jack was good, he led me to
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Honeyman and Honeyman led me to Rutland.
After a little pressure Rutland told me who had
paid him to take the cargo.’
‘And you thought you’d earn yourself some
extra money?’
Davenham said, ‘I’m a wealthy man, Greene,
and everyone has their price, even your brother.’
My mind was racing. How could I go for
Motcombe and get that gun from him? How
long did I have?
‘What was in that cargo?’ I asked tersely. ‘You
can at least tell me that before you kill me.’ For a
moment I thought of Simon but Davenham
must have read my mind.
‘I shouldn’t rely on Simon coming to your
rescue. As I said, everyone has his price. He’ll
soon get through your father’s inheritance, my
offer of help will be rescinded, and that will be
the end of him unless he plays ball. Simon, as
you must know, doesn’t care about anyone or
anything except success and that means
continuing his research and getting his product
to market.’
I felt some pity for Simon. ‘The cargo?’ I
prompted. There just had to be a way out of this.
‘It came from the laboratory on Salisbury Plain?’
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Davenham answered. ‘Yes. I was researching
into developing a new anti-ageing drug. The
project was highly secret as you can imagine; if
competitors got a sniff of what I was doing there
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would have been no end to the industrial
espionage. It was a government project; Bill
helped me get the funding for it. At the time he
was a Conservative MP. I convinced him of the
need to look into researching a drug that could
help keep people fitter and healthier longer. I was
working with an enzyme called telomerase. It
was first discovered in 1984. Telomerase is found
in a wide variety of cancers which have a genetic
mutation allowing them to manufacture
telomerase.’
‘You’ve lost me,’ I muttered.
Davenham smiled patronizingly. ‘In the 1970s
it was discovered that the ends of our
chromosomes have little, er shall we say, caps on
them which prevent them from getting frayed.
If these caps, called telomeres, are lost, then the
chromosomes stick together and the cell
eventually dies. More cells die, the more you age.
In a normal cell the telomeres fuse gradually
becomes shorter and shorter and eventually the
cell commits suicide. We grow old.’
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‘So by using this enzyme and manufacturing
telomerase you can stop the cell committing suicide
and prevent, or hold up, the ageing process?’
‘In its simplistic way, yes. We’re all living longer
– well some of us are.’ He grinned.
My body stiffened. The adrenaline was
pumping through me preparing me to attack. I
thought what have I got to lose? But not yet.
Motcombe wouldn’t kill me here; it was too
risky. They would have to take me somewhere,
and maybe only Motcombe would do that. One
against one, even with a gun I stood a better
chance of staying alive.
Davenham was saying, ‘If we could just slow
down the ageing process and therefore stave off
some of the diseases of old age, Parkinson’s,
cancer, osteoarthritis… Oh I know they’re not
confined to the elderly but the majority of cases,
except possibly cancer, are. Just think of the
savings to the NHS. The elderly and their
ailments are a great drain on it.’
‘So it was done purely for the good of the
country to help save the National Health Service
money,’ I scoffed, tossing back some of the
whisky, which until then had stayed untouched
in my hands.
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Davenham shrugged. ‘It would have had
commercial implications too, of course, but I
didn’t worry too much about that then. I just
wanted my own laboratory and to conduct my
research. I had ideas, which I wanted to test. I
had met Bill at university, which is where I also
met your brother, as you know. I lost touch with
Bill for a few years before coming across him
again at a dinner. I told him about my ideas and
he agreed to help.’
I bet he did, after Davenham had seduced him
and then blackmailed him. I also presumed the
relationship was still active.
Davenham swirled the whisky in the beautifully
cut crystal glass with his slim elegant hands.
‘During the course of my research I experimented
with many chemicals, which included what are
coarsely known as gender benders – PBDEs –
polybrominated diphenyl ethers – if you want
the full name. They disrupt hormones, and are
known endocrine disrupters, which damage
sperm. The processes also involved the use of
Acrylamide, a suspected carcinogen, but there
isn’t sufficient data to prove it causes cancer in
humans. After all, how can you test it on humans
to see if it is known to cause cancer?’
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He rose and poured another whisky. I eyed
Motcombe, wondering if I would have a chance
to escape that gun but Motcombe’s gaze was
clearly on me and the gun was steady.
Davenham continued, ‘The process of
disposing of carcinogens requires precautions,
which even from the brief time you spent
studying biochemistry you should know, but in
case your breakdown has obliterated the
knowledge I’ll tell you. For example they must
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be doubly wrapped in plastic bags, sealed and
labelled, clearly identified and passed on to a
specialist waste disposal company.’
‘And you didn’t bother with any of that!’ I spat.
Davenham shrugged. ‘I had an arrangement
with a certain party overseas who would take the
waste for a fee and dispose of it. There was
nothing illegal in that, at least there wasn’t then.’
‘For Christ’s sake, men have died because of
you!’
‘I didn’t start the fire.’
I was out of my chair but Motcombe was quicker.
He struck me across the face with the butt of the
gun. I put a hand up to my bleeding mouth.
Davenham shook his head. ‘Give him a
handkerchief, Motcombe; I don’t want his blood
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all over the furniture. Really, Adam, you
shouldn’t be so emotional. Frank Rutland knew
what he was carrying. He made money out of
me though you wouldn’t have thought so to look
at the way he was living.’
‘Did you kill him?’ I asked surprised.
‘Of course not, and neither did I kill
Honeyman. That needed more expertise.’
I glanced at Motcombe who simply shrugged.
I knew it was him.
Davenham went on, ‘After the fire on board
the ship, Rutland got a little nervous but there
was no evidence to show that it had caused
cancer. We carried on until 1995 when the Basel
Convention examined the exporting of waste.
What we had been doing until then, exporting
waste to be disposed of in another country, wasn’t
illegal.’
‘But not marking it as hazardous waste, was,’ I
snapped. ‘Those fire fighters went on to that ship
not knowing that they were being exposed to
dangerous chemicals. Why not get the waste
from your laboratory experiments disposed of
in the proper manner? Surely the laboratory was
perfectly legitimate? This can’t be just about
money,’ I cried incredulously.
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‘Isn’t everything about money at the end of the
day?’ answered Davenham. ‘Besides I didn’t trust
anyone. A chemist at a waste disposal company
could have easily tracked me down and
discovered what I was doing. I couldn’t afford
anyone to find out. That’s why it was only me,
oh and Gerry Drake. Unfortunately he died.’
I thought of Jody. Had her father known what
Davenham was doing with that waste, or had he
been innocent of the blatant negligence that
Davenham had practised?
Davenham said, ‘The research led to no anti-
ageing drug, but I’m still working on it, although
I did find that what I had produced had
remarkable results for rejuvenating skin, hence
the April range of beauty products and
rejuvenating skin creams. It’s made me a very
wealthy man, as you can see.’
I looked at Motcombe. ‘You made sure that
gas cylinder was placed inside the club and ready
to explode when Jack went in. Did you push Jack
into the fire or simply let him go before you.’
‘Jack was always an action man.’ He smiled.
I jumped up and flung the remaining dregs of
my drink in Motcombe’s face. But Motcombe’s
response was quicker. The gun came down on
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the side of my head. I didn’t stand a chance. My
world went dark.
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CHAPTER 18
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W
hen I awoke I was lying on my side and
something hard was rubbing against my
cheek. I shifted my head and winced, cursing
softly under my breath as gravel pierced my skin.
I tried to move my hands but found they were
tied behind my back. It was dark. It took me four
attempts and a great deal of effort to swing myself
upright. Thankfully there was a wall behind for
me to lean on. My head hurt like hell. It felt as
though someone had implanted an orchestra
inside it and they were practising a Beethoven
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symphony very badly. I tried to shake myself
awake and then wished I hadn’t as the cymbals
clashed between my ears.
My legs were free, which was a blessing, about
the only one, unless I counted being alive. I
sniffed the air. It smelt of damp and decay and
something else that I couldn’t quite place. I
strained my ears listening for any sound that
would give me some indication of where they
had brought me. All I could hear was scratching
and the light patter of rats.
Slowly my eyes grew accustomed to the dark
and I began to identify the smell. The toot of a
river barge confirmed it. I was in a derelict
building along the Thames somewhere, an old
warehouse that hadn’t yet been converted into
the riverside residence of rich city men and
women. I wasn’t alone.
In front of me, by the light of a powerful torch,
I could see two men standing close to a fallen
steel girder. It was Davenham and Motcombe.
They weren’t arguing exactly but they didn’t look
like they were discussing the weather either. I
guessed they were deciding what to do with me,
or rather deciding the best way of disposing of
me, as they’d already agreed that I should die.
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My eyes searched the dim interior looking for
a way out but I couldn’t see one. My head was
too fuddled to think clearly but unless I did this
was it, the end. Davenham glanced my way.
‘He’s conscious,’ I heard him say to
Motcombe.
They came towards me. Motcombe was
carrying the torch and a gun but it was what was
in Davenham’s hand that scared me more than
either of those items.
‘It’s all right, Greene, you won’t feel a thing.
Just a sharp injection and the world will cease to
exist for you.’
I ran my tongue around my lips and swallowed.
My heart was in overdrive. If it carried on
pumping like that they wouldn’t need to use the
syringe, I’d keel over with a heart attack.
‘Then what?’ I finally managed to stammer,
my voice sounding as though it was coming from
a different body.
‘The river. When they fish you out it will look
like suicide.’
‘What’s in it?’ I jerked my head at the syringe.
‘Heroin.’
‘Jesus!’ I tried to struggle up but Motcombe’s
hand came down firmly on my shoulder.
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‘There’s no point in struggling. Ben Lydeway
did that but it didn’t make any difference.’
I slumped. ‘You killed him?’
‘At first I thought he might come in useful
especially when I found out who his sister was
and what had happened to her at university. Your
file makes very interesting reading, Adam,’
Motcombe explained coolly. ‘Ben Lydeway
believed you’d pushed his sister out of that
window and was determined to get his revenge,
poor boy. Instead your girlfriend was as high as a
kite and probably thought she could fly. Ben had
only recently found out what happened to his
sister after his mother died and his aunt told him.
The family had emigrated to New Zealand
shortly after Alison Lydeway’s death. It was a
bonus that he’d attacked your paintings. I
thought the police would charge you but they
let you go. It would have been better if they had
detained you, that way you might have got to
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live. Still, the police will make the connection
eventually. They’ll think you’ve overdosed,
killing yourself because you couldn’t live with
what you had done, murdering Alison, Ben and
Frank Rutland, of course.’
‘What motive have I got for killing Rutland?’
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‘We’ll think of one and then plant the evidence.
The police won’t need much persuading as long
as they can tick it off their crime figures. You see
there’s no way out for you, Adam,’ Motcombe
said.
But there had to be. Desperately I searched for
a solution but my brain had already shut down.
Then something totally unexpected happened. I
could hardly believe my eyes. I thought I must be
imagining it. No, there she was. Jody appeared out
of the blackness and she was walking towards us.
‘Not giving you any trouble, is he, Pete?’
Motcombe looked surprised for a moment
before he smiled. ‘He won’t get the chance.’
‘Good.’
My guts twisted at the scope of her betrayal. I
had guessed right, she was in this with
Davenham and Motcombe. ‘Bitch!’ I said fiercely
She stared at me and said, ‘Better get it over
with.’
But Motcombe was looking puzzled. ‘How did
you know I was here?’
She dashed a knowing glance at Davenham.
Davenham frowned and glanced at Motcombe.
I could see that Davenham was ruffled. ‘Who
the hell is she?’ he snarled.
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‘Oh come on, Tim. The time for pretence is
over.’ Jody smiled.
‘I don’t know you,’ he spat.
‘He’s lying of course, Pete.’ She addressed
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Motcombe and moved closer to him. ‘Tim has
told me all about his laboratory and how he was
going to kill you. Yes, you Pete. Why else do you
think he insisted on coming here with you? He
wanted to make sure you killed Adam Greene
and then afterwards he’s going to kill you.’
‘Rubbish! I never said that. Can’t you see what
she’s trying to do?’
But I could see that Jody had struck a chord. It
made a great deal of sense. It didn’t take two of
them to kill me. Why would Davenham want to
soil his hands with murder when he had
Motcombe at his beck and call? My brain was
beginning to recover.
I said, ‘She’s right, Motcombe. He can’t let you
live because you would know too much.
Davenham knows that you’ll bleed him dry, and
make his boyfriend pay too. I see Bransbury’s
not here to share in the thrills.’
Davenham threw a nervous glance at
Motcombe. I pulled at my ropes. I flexed my
right hand, trying to ease it out of the loosening
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bonds. I saw Jody edge towards Motcombe.
Davenham cried, ‘You’re not going to believe
him?’
‘Shut up.’ Motcombe eased his body round to
face Davenham. I was looking at Jody. I saw
something that surprised me. Her eyes swivelled
towards me and then flicked down at
Motcombe’s gun. I could no longer tell what
were lies and what was the truth but I saw her
intention quite clearly. My heart was pumping
fast.
I said, ‘Maybe there’s enough heroin in that
syringe for you, Motcombe, as well as me. Did
you know that she’s Drake’s daughter?’
‘What!’ Motcombe spun back to gaze at Jody.
It was enough for Davenham. He plunged the
syringe into Motcombe. Motcombe swung back
and struck Davenham and the two men fell to
the ground as the gun skittered away. Jody dived
after it. I struggled against my bonds. The rope
gave. I didn’t know how long it would be for the
drug to take effect, or for one of them to be shot,
but I wasn’t going to hang around and find out.
I glanced at Jody. I didn’t know if I could trust
her but I had to take a chance. Besides my heart
wouldn’t let me leave her here.
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‘Come on.’ I finally freed my hand and grabbed
Jody’s arm. But she shook me off.
‘No,’ she shouted. ‘I’ve waited a long time for
this.’ She pointed the gun at Davenham. ‘He
killed my father and now I’m going to kill him.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Jody leave it!’ But it was too
late Davenham lunged out and grabbed Jody’s
leg. She toppled over and the gun flew from her
hand. Davenham reached for it and got it.
Motcombe made a grab at Davenham.
I hauled Jody to her feet. ‘Run!’ I shouted at
her. We needed the torch but couldn’t waste time
trying to find it. She didn’t want to run. She
wanted to stay. I wrenched at her arm and pulled
her away.
As we stumbled away from the sprawling men,
I hadn’t the faintest idea where I was going and I
was dragging an unwilling Jody with me.
‘Listen,’ I cried breathlessly, spinning her round
to face me, as I listened for the sounds of
footsteps coming after us. ‘Whatever game you’re
playing it’s over. Your father is dead and so is
Jack and unless we get out of here now we will
both be joining them. Is that what you want?
Do you want the world to know that your father
was a traitor?’
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‘He wasn’t, ’she cried.
‘No one will believe that because Davenham
will tell it otherwise. Don’t you see, Jody; we
have to live to tell the truth. Now are you
coming?’ She nodded. ‘This way. I can hear the
river. There must be a way out.’
I could feel the cold air on my face and the
pungent smell of the river grew stronger. I heard
a shot. We froze and looked back but only the
black night greeted us.
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‘Careful,’ I cautioned as her foot slipped
through a rotting floorboard. ‘It looks as though
we’re on the first or second floor; there are holes
all over the place. Take my hand.’
We inched our way across the floor, a stone
crashed down through a hole, and we heard it
fall against the hard concrete below. Slowly, we
edged our way towards the current of air and
the smell of the river. At one time there was
only a steel girder between us and the floor
below. It was like some obstacle in a children’s
adventure park, I thought, shuffling my feet
along it, balancing my body with my arms. But
this was no game and there was no soft
cushioned special surface to protect us if we fell.
I could hear Jody’s heavy breathing behind me
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PAULINE R OWSON 302
but couldn’t afford to look back at her.
‘There’s some steps. I don’t know how safe
they are but we’ll have to chance it. We’ll have to
climb down.’ I took her hand, pausing as I
thought I heard a noise but I couldn’t be sure
where it was coming from.
Painfully slowly we climbed down the steps.
They seemed sturdy enough; the floor below us
though was another matter. What I wouldn’t give
for a torch. Then as if hearing my plea God lit
one; the moon came out from behind the clouds
and shone into the building lighting our way. I
glanced at Jody who smiled grimly at me. Now
we could make better haste. Another flight of
steps to the ground floor. Only a few more steps
and we’d be by the river and possible escape.
As we raced to the bottom, a figure stepped
out. My heart sank. Incredibly it was Davenham.
In his left hand he held a cigarette lighter, in his
right Motcombe’s gun. How the hell had he got
here so quickly? Where had he come from?
There must have been a quicker, easier way.
Jesus, we had gone up and along whilst he’d
simply gone along!
‘That’s far enough,’ he commanded.
The flame on the lighter wavered, the moon
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went behind a cloud, and without thinking I
lunged at Davenham, wrestling him to the
ground. The lighter flew from his hand, as I
rammed my fist into his face and again.
‘Adam, look,’ Jody screamed.
I snatched a glance over my shoulder to see
orange flames licking up the steps we’d just
descended. The wood was rotten and dry; already
the space was filling with thick, black acrid
smoke, stinging my eyes. I scrambled up and
stared down at Davenham.
‘No, leave him,’ Jody screamed.
I hesitated. ‘I can’t. He’ll burn to death.’
‘Adam, you must or we’ll be dead.’
She grasped my sleeve. A great crash and the
timber fell down inches from me making me leap
back. I was coughing. Jody was coughing. At any
moment the building would collapse and kill us,
or the smoke would get to us. Jack’s death would
have been for nothing. I had to get out and tell
the truth.
‘Low. Get down low,’ I spluttered. Jody
dropped to her knees coughing and choking.
I did the same. ‘On your stomach,’ I bellowed
above the roar of the fire.
The hissing, spitting, crackling fire mocked us,
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PAULINE R OWSON 304
leaping around us, taunting us: I’ll get you yet;
you can’t escape. We had only seconds to get out.
The heat was intense. The smoke terrifying.
Then suddenly we were in the fresh air, pressed
up against a wall, with a deep, black chasm below
us. There was only one way out and that was
down. As the flames leapt around us, I screamed,
‘Jump, Jody, jump.’
I wrapped my arms around her; we teetered
on the brink and went over together into the
darkness. I just prayed the tide was in or we’d be
dead.
The cold water sucked the breath from my body.
For a moment I thought my heart had stopped.
The water was pulling me under. I thrashed out
alarmed. Jody. I had to get to Jody.
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With a supreme effort I propelled myself
upwards. Then I saw her. The river was alight
from the fire behind us and I could hear the
sound of the fire engines racing towards it. I
cried out and swallowed the foul water. I
spluttered and swallowed more. If I survived
this I’d probably end up with bubonic plague.
Jody swivelled her head. She was treading
water.
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IN C OLD D AYLIGHT 305
‘I’m all right,’ she gasped and began to swim
towards me.
Beyond her I could see a riverboat heading for
us. It could run us down. I began to wave my
arm and call out. Jody did the same.
My body was so heavy. I could barely stay
afloat; it was taking every last ounce of energy. I
was exhausted. The water was pulling me down.
The dirty sludgy river entered my mouth. I
spluttered and choked. I couldn’t go on. Then I
saw Jody; she was struggling. I had to help Jody.
I tried to swim nearer to her but couldn’t
because of the weight I was carrying. The drone
of the boat grew nearer. Jody’s head disappeared
into the muddy, swirling pool. I had to get to
her. I couldn’t let her die. I couldn’t die now, not
when help was so close. It was going to run us
down. It wouldn’t see us. I raised my hand and
shouted. Water entered my mouth. I coughed
and spluttered. I felt myself being dragged down.
Then hands were hauling me out. Thank God I
was safe. But what about Jody? I tried to speak
but couldn’t. Someone put a blanket around me.
Then I heard the words I’d been praying to hear.
‘It’s all right, mate. We’ve got her. She’s OK.’
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PAULINE R OWSON 306
CHAPTER 19
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I
t was Christmas Day morning. I stood on the
pebbled beach at Hayling and stared across the
black velvet sea to the twinkling lights of the Isle
of Wight recalling my conversation with a thin,
acerbic middle-aged man called Bernard from
Special Branch.
After overhearing Davenham’s conversation
with Bransbury, Bernard had sent Motcombe
into Red Watch to discover what Jack was
investigating. Then Jack had died and Bernard
had enlisted Jody’s help to find out if he’d left
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IN C OLD D AYLIGHT 307
any notes. Bernard had known that Jody would
do anything to find her father’s killer. He’d also
wanted someone to keep an eye on Motcombe
whom he suspected of selling out to Davenham.
Someone Motcombe didn’t know. He had used
Jody just as he had used me. Jody had known
nothing about Davenham, or that Motcombe
was in Davenham’s pay.
But now both Jody and I knew the truth and
that the Minister was involved. We could expose
the secret.
‘Ah, but where’s your proof that Bransbury
knew about Davenham inappropriately
exporting hazardous cargo,’ Bernard had said.
‘I could make enough noise to make someone
take notice, or at least ask some rather pertinent
questions. The newspapers perhaps?’
‘I don’t think that would be wise.’
Or healthy, I thought. ‘What about the fire
fighters who died from cancer caused by that
hazardous waste?’
‘Again, where’s your proof, Mr Greene?’
With Davenham and Drake dead and the
Minister professing ignorance yes, where was my
proof? Greys had no record of any fire, there was
no fire report, and there was no Rutland or
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PAULINE R OWSON 308
Honeyman. There was also no computer disk.
Bernard’s men had searched my boat whilst I
was in London and found it.
‘And Ian? Jack’s colleague? What’s happened
to him?’ I recalled his wife’s distraught voice.
‘The police are looking for him. He got
depressed over his colleague’s death. He blames
himself.’
‘But it was Motcombe who told him to swap.’
‘Was it?’
Of course Motcombe wasn’t around to
confirm it or to tell anyone what he had done
with Ian.
When Bernard left I couldn’t bear to stay in
the same room. The very air was full of his
poison. I had been about to leave when Jody had
walked in.
‘How did you know I was in that warehouse?’
I had asked her, still unsure of her.
‘Bernard told me.’
‘He knew Davenham and Motcombe had
taken me there to kill me?’ A surge of anger swept
through me swiftly followed by a chill that
seeped into every bone in my body. It would have
been more convenient for Bernard if we had all
perished in that blaze, or if the river boat had
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IN C OLD D AYLIGHT 309
run Jody and me over in the Thames instead of
saving us.
Jody said, ‘He told me where I could find my
father’s killer. I didn’t ask questions. I just wanted
to find the bastard.’
‘You didn’t just happen to turn up at the café
that morning I found the message in Jack’s New
Testament and Psalms, did you?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I saw you leave
Rosie’s and then I was told where you were. The
personal CD player was a recorder. When I
switched it off I was actually switching it over to
tape you. When that man threw paint at your
pictures, Bernard told me who he was.’
‘You knew all about Alison?’
She nodded. Lies. Our whole relationship had
been based on lies. I felt anger tinged with
bitterness and sorrow. She had deceived me.
Jody said quickly, ‘I wanted to tell you but I
couldn’t. I needed information and you were my
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best bet of finding it. I’m sorry for deceiving you,
Adam, but I had to get to the truth about my
father. Don’t you see it was all that mattered to
me.’
‘And now?’
‘It still matters but something else does too.’
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PAULINE R OWSON 310
I wanted to believe her but how could I? ‘And
the police letting me go after Ben’s death? I
suppose Special Branch arranged that too?’
‘Motcombe had been seen going into the hotel
with Ben Lydeway at about the time of the
murder. I knew you weren’t inside the room
because I was speaking to you on the telephone
not far from where you were on the beach; I was
on the pier.’
‘And Simon?’
‘You told me where you were going and what
you were going to ask him. I called Motcombe
and told him. Now I know he called Davenham
who telephoned your brother and fed him the
information about my father. Motcombe knew
where you were.’
‘And tried to kill me on Salisbury Plain.’ She
held my gaze. Had she known that? I thought I
saw regret in her eyes but I might have wished
it. ‘And Motcombe had no idea you were Drake’s
daughter, hence the false name: Jody Piers.’ She
nodded.
‘I’m sorry you got involved in this, Adam.’
I should have been too but I wasn’t. Jack’s face
swam before me, one moment laughing, his eyes
twinkling dangerously, his broad mouth
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IN C OLD D AYLIGHT 311
stretched in that cheeky grin, the kind, concerned
expression in the pub that night when he’d
rescued me from despair; our many sailing trips
across to the Isle of Wight, a clear blue sky, a fresh
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breeze, nothing but the sound of the sea and the
wind in the sails. No, I wasn’t sorry I’d got
involved. In life Jack had given me unconditional
friendship, in death he had given me back my
self-respect, my strength, myself.
Jody said, ‘I had to do it, Adam. You do
understand, don’t you?’
‘I understand,’ I said slowly and watched the
light come into her eyes. It set my pulse racing.
I knew that I cared for her more than I had cared
for anyone before, even Alison, but I wasn’t sure
I trusted her.
She said, ‘Do you think there might be a future
for us, together?’
‘Do you want there to be?’
‘Yes.’
I looked steadily at her fighting every instinct
and desire in my aching body to enfold her in
my arms. ‘I need time, Jody.’ The disappointment
on her face almost made me weaken. I couldn’t.
I had to think.
I had returned home at the earliest opportunity
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PAULINE R OWSON 312
packed my bags, collected Boudicca, who didn’t
seem to mind the move, and gone to live on the
boat. On New Year’s Day the two of us were
going to go sailing for a while. I didn’t know
exactly where or for how long.
I sniffed the sea air. It felt good. I watched the
waves wash on to the shore and out again. The
tide was rising just as it always does bringing with
it both sorrow and gladness. I heard a fishing
boat chugging out to sea. I saw its lights. Time
slipped by.
It was over. I’d done what I had set out to do.
I’d discovered why those fire fighters had died.
I’d completed Jack’s mission and I’d found Jack’s
killers. Perhaps one day I would be able to tell
the truth about what had really happened. One
day I would expose it. For now I had to remain
silent, not for my own sake, that didn’t matter to
me, but for Rosie. I had to protect her. Jack would
have wanted it this way.
I wondered about Bransbury. I guessed that the
Prime Minister would be told the facts and that
Bransbury would be asked to leave, not only the
cabinet, but also politics quicker than you could
say by-election. Perhaps Bransbury would be
relieved that Davenham had perished in that
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IN C OLD D AYLIGHT 313
derelict warehouse; that he would no longer be
pulling his strings.
And Jody? Would I ever see her again? I knew
I wouldn’t forget her and I didn’t want to. If she
came back into my life I’d be pleased, no, more
than that, I’d be complete. Perhaps I would seek
her out. I didn’t know. Not yet. How could I?
Then there was Faye.
She was oblivious of how my life had changed,
ignorant of my brush with death. Even if she
knew, or I told her, I could imagine her only half
listening before plunging on with her latest new
client account. Poor Faye. But that was over.
There was no need to pretend anymore, not with
Faye, not with Simon, not with Father. And
especially there was no need to pretend to myself.
I had faced fear and I had conquered it.
In the whispering greyness I watched the dawn
arrive reluctantly, almost as if it was afraid of a
new day and what it would bring. It licked and
sniffed the air not sure about it, a little nervous,
a little shocked. I thought of Alison with a
calmness that I wouldn’t have believed possible
before all this. She was the past.
The sun grew in strength; it got brighter and
more hopeful until it decided to creep over the
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PAULINE R OWSON 314
edge of the earth. I watched the silvery light in
the sky broaden into a pale pink flush in the east
and I saw the magic of the sea come alive. In the
cold daylight, I had to face the future and I did
so with a new but sad heart. I pulled up my collar
and started walking.
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IN C OLD D AYLIGHT 315 BY THE SAME AUTHOR
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BY THE SAME AUTHOR
TIDE OF DEATH
A MARINE MYSTERY
FEATURING HORTON AND CANTELLI
‘Hoist the sails for DI Andy Horton and his sidekick
Barney Cantelli. A series with a fair wind behind it
and destined to go far.’
Amy Myers
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BY THE SAME AUTHOR
It is DI Andy Horton’s second day back in
Portsmouth CID after being suspended for eight
months. Whilst out running in the early morning
he trips over the naked battered body of a man
on the beach. PC Evans has been stabbed the
night before, the DCI is up before a promotion
board and Sergeant Cantelli is having trouble
with his fifteen-year-old daughter. But Horton’s
mind is on other things not least of which is
trying to prove his innocence after being accused
of rape.
Beset by personal problems and aided by
Cantelli, Horton sets out to find a killer who will
stop at nothing to cover his tracks. As he gets
closer to the truth, and his personal investigations
start to uncover dark secrets that someone would
rather not have exposed, he risks not only his
career but also his life…
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Coming soon -
In For the Kill by Pauline Rowson.
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If you would like to go on our mailing list for
forthcoming publications please contact us on
enquiries@rowmark.co.uk or visit our web site
at www.rowmark.co.uk.
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www.rowmark.co.uk
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Extracted pictures
Picture No 1
Picture No 2
Top
Bookmarks
1. PROLOGUE, page = 8
2. CHAPTER 1, page = 10
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3. CHAPTER 2, page = 25
4. CHAPTER 3, page = 37
5. CHAPTER 4, page = 55
6. CHAPTER 5, page = 69
7. CHAPTER 6, page = 85
8. CHAPTER 7, page = 105
9. CHAPTER 8, page = 123
10. CHAPTER 9, page = 137
11. CHAPTER 10, page = 151
12. CHAPTER 11, page = 169
13. CHAPTER 12, page = 195
14. CHAPTER 13, page = 213
15. CHAPTER 14, page = 227
16. CHAPTER 15, page = 239
17. CHAPTER 16, page = 259
18. CHAPTER 17, page = 277
19. CHAPTER 18, page = 293
20. CHAPTER 19, page = 307
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